Welcome Home
by A Hairy Burrito
Summary: Eldritch horrors and evil men may abound, but in the shadow of the Darkest Dungeon, they are hardly the most dangerous beings to walk this land. Who can anyone trust in this tainted realm?
1. Prologue: Forest of the Damned

_Death stands above me, whispering low_

 _I know not what into my ear:_

 _Of his strange language all I know_

 _Is, there is not a word of fear._

\- Walter Savage Landor

 _Prologue: Forest of the Damned_

A low, thick mist hung over the desolate, dead forest, like a shroud covering a long-since rotted corpse. Figures flickered here and there, dashing in-between shadows cast by trees that looked to be eternally locked within their writhing agony. From within darkened crevices, if one looked hard enough, they might see gleaming pairs of eyes staring back at them. Nothing broke the all-consuming silence that dominated the land, no being daring to be the first to announce their location to the other horrors that stalked the fields and tree lines.

Once, this land had been one of renowned beauty, where lords and kings alike went to forget their worries and relax, engaging in the thrill of the hunt with the wide variety of animals that had roamed within, wild boars being especially favored. Many lush and fruitful orchards and farms dotted the landscape, bringing great wealth to the lord of the realm. Now it was a twisted mockery of its former splendor, overrun with creeping foliage and blackened rot, with the only beings to roam it now were those who were truly desperate to escape justice and creatures that better belonged in feverish nightmares. Crumbling ruins, overrun by gnarled ivy and towered over by contorted trees, dotted the landscape, faded reminders of past glories, ambitions, and folly. The few who risked entering either returned broken in mind and soul, or never returned at all.

Incredibly, despite all of this, there were a few that still dared to live deep inside the belly of this desecrated landscape. Within a rundown and almost forgotten hamlet, overlooked by a bald hillside that hosted crumbling halls and pillars, a few souls too stubborn or too fearful to brave the old, lone road that had not yet been consumed by the twisted advance of the corrupted forest still lingered, though their time, like the road and the hamlet, was fast approaching. The forest did not tolerate those who attempted to oppose its expansive will for long, and had many resources with which to slowly but surely finish slitting the throat of the last remnants of civilization, a civilization which had been dying a painful death for decades now.

Slowly, with the all the ponderous speed of thought that it was capable of mustering, the forest halted in its efforts, having sensed a fresh batch of interlopers well within its domain, a most unusual event. A black coach thundered along the old road, that long, winding scar upon its body; within it three souls bound for that tumor inside the heart of its body, the Hamlet. One consumed by apathy, another by the conflicting drives of duty and honor, and the last driven to complete a task without understanding fully the expectations that would be placed upon him, or the ramifications of his impending actions.

It pondered what to do with these meddlers for a few minutes, its vast, seeping conscience focusing its prodigious strength on a simple yet adequate solution to this new dilemma, before sending the appropriate instructions to various plant life in the area towards which the coach was now speeding.

Nothing survived here without the blessing of the forest, or the blessing of the Lord of the Depths. These outsiders would learn this soon enough, for in the shadow of the Darkest Dungeon, only the bravest or the most foolhardy persevered, with the rest doomed to fuel the growth of the encroaching shadows.

Time, and the countless fiends that awaited them, would tell which category these newcomers resided in.


	2. On the Old Road

_And the man: 'I wish they'd let the poor old road be. I don't_

 _like improvements.' 'Why not?' 'They bring the world;_

 _We're well without it.'_

\- Robinson Jeffers

 _Chapter 1: On the Old Road_

The thundering of hooves was the only sound to greet Alexis as he awoke, jostled out of the land of dreams as the coach bumped along a particularly rough patch of crumbling cobblestone that had once been a part of the main road to and from his ancestral homelands.

Home. A peculiar thought that. It had been two centuries since the venerable and esteemed house of Banecroft had last set foot upon the lands bestowed to them by the Great King over half a millennia ago for their many contributions in the wars against his enemies. Those two centuries had initially been years of wandering and debt, as incompetent halfwits squandered what little remained of the family's wealth after the fall of their lands, the full details of which were still a mystery to this day. Finally the Banecrofts had managed to fend off their debtors long enough to establish a steady life in far off cities, slowly forgetting their proud and imperial heritage, their numbers dwindling until only he remained to carry on their legacy.

Alexis' hand slowly began to tighten inside his coat as thoughts of his family's mistreatment over the years ghosted through his mind, the fist growing more and more closed until the faint crunching of ancient parchment brought him out of his darkened reverie. Carefully he reopened his hand, hoping he had not damaged the last remaining token of the glory years in his wrath. As gently as he could possibly manage, he began to unfold the paper, yellowed by the inexorable march of time, from the wadded mess that he had accidently turned it into. This aged piece of paper, this long forgotten plea for aid, was his only chance at succeeding in this task. The letter had been delivered to the younger brother of the lord of the Banecroft realm one day by a frightened courier, and supposedly, when the young noble had finished reading the missive and had sought any answers he could, the messenger had already expired from his terror. Though most of the words on the vellum had been either been purposely expunged by those long dead or obliterated by the passage of the years, enough remained to gather a sense of what had occurred all those decades ago.

Something had been set loose by the folly of his deceased ancestor, the patriarch of the Banecroft family at the time. Just what that something was, however, a completely different story altogether. There was a reference to a Darkest Dungeon, before the letter began to devolve into lines of gibberish interspersed with pleas for aid and a call to return home. Alexis had conducted research into possible refugees fleeing the homelands, seeking any possible firsthand accounts of what had ruined his family, but any hopes for an alternative narrative of the fall of the Banecroft estate had hit a brick wall. Namely, that there were no such refugees to be found. It was as though whatever had brought ruin to his family had been so swift in destroying all those who had pledged their services to the estate that they simply had had no chance to flee. That, or there had been a very thorough, very methodical cover up of all evidence pertaining to the downfall and its events; a concerted effort to hush up what had been most likely occult activity on a massive scale. Neither possibility was particularly reassuring to Alexis.

Still, this was a chance to make a name for himself. A chance to restore his family's honor, and come into possession of the vast wealth that had supposedly been stored below the ancestral manor, along with the ownership of the estate itself. Truly a win-win situation if he had ever heard one.

Indeed, such promises of wealth and glory had other uses beyond fueling his resolve to return and set matters right. Alexis knew he would need workers to rebuild the home of his forefathers, peasants to reside on the land, brave men and women to defend his holdings, and those who delved into lore best forgotten if he was to fully remove the curse that gripped his ancestral realm with a fist of steel. In time, such peoples would be forthcoming, when the power of the Banecrofts was spoken of across the lands of the righteous once more, drawn by promises of peace and prosperity, a golden future for them and their descendants. But for now…

Alexis gently placed the ancient letter back within the inner pocket of his coat before raising his head to stare at the two individuals who sat inside the now-madly rocking coach. Only long years of strict schooling at the hands of even stricter tutors allowed him to prevent his face from contorting into a sneer of disgust as he laid his eyes upon the rogue seated to the left side. Dismal, Dismas, Alexis had not bothered to listen to the name of this piece of filth that now sat across from him. He had been finalizing his preparations for his departure to the hamlet deep within the forest, the last known bastion of anything roughly approaching civilization within the accursed forest when the sounds of clashing steel drifted through the open window of the room in the tavern that he had been staying in. He had arrived upon the scene of battle between two groups of lowlifes just as the city watch had begun rounding up the survivors, and he had quickly claimed the miscreant for his own. Though such an act galled one through which the blood of nobility flowed, Alexis knew he needed as many men that he could muster for his expedition. If said men owed him their lives personally, so much the better. That did not mean Alexis had to like it though.

Dismas, for his part, glared back at him, the darkness inside the carriage doing little to dim the gleam within his eyes, no doubt the gleam of brutality and lowminded cunning. Alexis' eyes discretely roamed over the rogue's features, noting the nose that betrayed the fact that it had been broken numerous times, the cauliflower ears, the scarred knuckles, and the long, deep gash that left a deep furrow upon the man's brow. A foul odor emanated from behind the man's scarf, causing Alexis' nose to wrinkle slightly at the rascal's unwashed breath. Marks of years of hardship and living day-to-day, scrabbling for every copper and halfsilver that he could conceivably lay his dirty hands on. Such a man may owe him his life, Alexis thought with more than a tinge of disgust filling his mind, but he would undoubtedly flee at the first opportunity. How far the Banecrofts had fallen if they were forced to rely on men such as this.

Shadows cast by the pale moonlight through the tortured graspings of the bare tree limbs above plunged through the coach's windows and danced across the forms of the passengers inside as Alexis glanced over to the other soul that he had chosen to accompany him on the initial foray into the woodlands as said soul finished its examination of the impressively-sized bastard sword that normally rested across its back. Now if only he had more men like this one, he would not have to worry about whether or not his warriors were reliable, or fear that they would break in the heat of the moment. No, the man sitting across from him, known to the world as the honorable crusader Reynauld, truly was a man, in every sense of the word. This brave knight had won his laurels in the great campaigns against the heathen Necromancer Kingdoms of the far south, slaying all vile affronts to the gods that crossed his path. Now the man who gazed back at him impassively, fiddling unconsciously with his deep blue tabard that contrasted with the polished steel armor over which it rested, had sworn his services to Alexis, and would undoubtedly prove invaluable in the task at hand.

Alexis was briefly discomposed by brief snatches of insane laughter that drifted down from the top of the coach. Thankfully, however, the moonlight had momentarily disappeared, so neither of his traveling companions were witnesses to his discomfiture. Alexis had been wary about taking the coachman who sat above them on, but no one else had been willing to take him to his destination, the rest either paling to an impressive degree at the mere mention of the forest, or stammering momentarily before running away as fast as their legs could propel them. Finally, when he had thought that his quest might have been doomed to failure even before it began, he had stumbled across the man sitting in the shadows of the inn that he had been combing for drivers. The very sight of the man was almost enough to cause him to wonder whether or not such an event would have necessarily been a bad thing. A strange chill had seeped through his veins as the leering look that graced the man's face fixated upon him. The half-stifled, half-insane chuckles that escaped from the man's mouth throughout their conversation had done nothing to ease his mind.

Still, he had not planned and prepared for years only to be turned back by a mere coachman. So he had settled, even though he hated settling, and hired the mad driver. The man had even refused to accept payment, instead mumbling about how those who were so determined to meet their destiny should be sped on their way posthaste, the words juxtaposed with the seemingly permanent rictus grin spread across his face.

Now, as the coach nearly tipped over due to it taking a corner at speeds that were highly inadvisable even on well-paved roads, sending the contents of his stomach scrambling, Alexis ruminated as to whether or not he should have waited an additional day or two so as to find a relatively sane driver. Alas that he had no power over time itself, so that he could go back and beat some sense into himself.

Suddenly there arose a loud, ominous crashing noise, audible over even the din caused by the iron-rimmed coach wheels slamming up and down against the broken cobblestone pathway. Alexis felt the coach suddenly slide sideways, heard the team of horses scream and whinny in fright, and the insane laughter of the coach driver overlaying all of these misfortunes. As he and his companions desperately sought to grab hold of any handgrips to be found in the coach's interior, including each other, Alexis knew, in a single moment of clarity, provided by the focusing of the mind that only imminent death can seemingly gift, that he had come home at last.

A home that would actively resist the triumphal return of its masters every bloody step of the way.

* * *

Alexis' head swam as he slowly managed to push himself upright with the aid of a conveniently-placed tree branch.

What had caused the crash? How long had he been unconscious? Where were the others? These thoughts and a million more danced through his head as he glanced around, attempting to regain his bearings.

The answer to his first question came easily enough as he glanced downwards, his eyes revealing the tree branch that was currently occupied in keeping him on his feet to be of an impressive size and laying directly across the road. No doubt the driver had attempted to stop, swerving in the process and rolling the coach like an ungainly marble. Speaking of the driver, Alexis could see him, or, rather, what was left of him in the gloom that hung over the sides of the road. He immediately wished he had not, as the man's head had burst open like an overly ripe melon against a rotting oak tree, while the rest of him lay in a heap at the base of said tree in a tangle of awkwardly-bent limbs. The sight of what looked like the remains of the man's deathly smile permanently imbedded in the tree trunk was enough to send him hurtling over the edge, and he bent over and evacuated his abused stomach of his most recent meal, unmindful of the splatter that jumped up from the moss-covered stones to grace his boats and the ends of his coat.

Straightening back up, wiping his mouth in the process with the back of his hand, he glanced around again, this time more thoroughly as his vision was no longer blurred by afterimages. The coach had crashed in what appeared to be a small grove of maple trees. He could see what looked like a figure dangling out the coach door, now the roof of the carriage after it had flipped onto its side. Plodding his way over, feet still unsteady on the paving stones that jutted up from the ground haphazardly, Alexis hoped that whoever it was, preferably Reynauld, was still alive. Dead men may require no purses of gold, but they were worthless when it came to anything else.

Reaching the overturned coach, ignoring the small sounds made by the equine beasts that had not long ago thundered majestically along the old road, now dying pitiful deaths where they lay in the brown grass that popped out of the muddy earth here and there. Turning the body over, he nearly cursed aloud when he realized that the man was not Reynauld, but rather Dismas. Biting back several choice words that would have made his father embarrassed of having ever sired him, he hauled the man out of the carriage and onto the ground, propping him up against the coach's underside. Rapscallion or not, he needed every advantage he could lay his hands on after this setback. The luxury of picking and choosing his assets would have to wait until later.

A few rough slaps, as proscribed by the leading physicians of the day to rouse men from their stupors, were enough to bring Dismas back to the land of the living, such as it was.

"Up," he grunted as he grabbed the man's hand and hauled him to his feet.

Dismas glanced around warily once he had regained his footing. Alexis found himself heartened somewhat by the fact that the man still had control over his wits. The last thing he wanted to do was drag some drooling halfwit the rest of the way to the hamlet. Now where was Reynauld? Had the man been thrown from the coach like he had, or had he simply wandered off into the mist that was beginning to congregate amongst the trees, searching for something that he had lost in the crash?

Alexis need not have worried, as the clacking of armor, amplified by the half-circle of trees and the unnatural quiet that hushed everything else, heralded Reynauld's return at that moment. The man's platemail, so polished that it could have doubled as a mirror up until mere minutes ago was now encrusted in drying mud and various plant life. The rich blue of his tabard was now little more than a memory, instead plastered to the armor over which it had hung loosely, dirty to the point that it blended in with the rest of the grime.

Alexis noticed Dismas' face light up a little at the sight. Neither man had gotten along with the other in the short time that they had traveled together already. Unsurprising, really. Still, it would not do to have the pair bickering once more when they had yet to reach the beginning of his glorious return.

"Are you injured Ser Reynauld?" he asked before Dismas could finish opening his mouth to deliver some doubtlessly crude remark.

"Only my pride is," Reynauld replied with a roll of his shoulders.

"Then we should gather up what supplies have not been ruined by the crash and press onwards. I would rather not stay out in these woods any longer than I must."

Something flickered in the corners, on the extreme edge of their collective periphery visions. All around them yet nowhere to be found. All three men immediately tensed up.

"Agreed," murmured Dismas, "But are you sure you're fine as well? You're pretty badly dinged up, especially on your face."

Reaching up with his hand, Alexis was startled to realize the man was correct. He could feel the blood that had crusted and dried up all over the left side of his face, indicating that a rather nasty gash had taken up residence on his temple. Now that he thought about it, his right arm was emitting a steady, dull ache as well. He winced. Neither injury would be pleasant once the pain started setting in, as it soon would now that he realized the extent of the damage, as pain is wont to do.

"I will be fine," he reassured them and himself, "Let us salvage what we can and be off."

* * *

Alexis supposed he should be thankful that his pack was rather light given how far they had walked in the last two hours, but deep down he knew that he would much rather it be far heavier than it currently was.

They had been unable to save much from the wreckage. A few purses laden with coin, a few torches, and just enough food to tide them over. Most importantly, the letter had survived in more or less one piece. A missed meal or two would be nothing in comparison to losing any proof of hereditary claim to this realm. To be defeated when he had just barely begun was unthinkable.

Alexis' hand gripped the Banecroft family sword tighter as he stepped over a large tree root that protruded from the ground. He would not be denied his birthright, but even he would agree, however reluctantly, that his birthright would require a significant amount of effort if it were to ever be great again. The past two hours had almost made him change his mind and turn back, back to his insignificant yet comfortable life in the civilized lands. Only the amount of opportunities passed up and sacrifices made already kept him from doing such. He had come this far, he would not fail his family now.

Such trails of thoughts kept him preoccupied for the next quarter hour, kept him too preoccupied to notice the well-hidden silhouettes that had been stalking the band of travelers for some time.

In the end it was Dismas who ended up saving them when the figures struck. Reacting quickly, he yanked a pistol from where he had hidden it within his overcoat and dropped the first of the onrushing figures with a well-aimed blast. This gave Reynauld and Alexis enough time to draw their own swords and begin laying into the unwelcome visitors.

With a start, Alexis realized that their attackers were fellow humans. What would anyone in their right mind be doing out in a place like this?

A grim smile spread across his face as he pondered the irony in that thought, bringing his blade down upon his opponent's guard in the process. Four hundred years of history and authority given form in well-tempered steel smashed through the defense before cutting through the hapless man as if he were made of water, his blood leaping into the air and spattering Alexis.

A faint whistle, barely audible over the shouts of their attackers and the roars of exultations to the gods that emitted from Reynauld's lips as he swung his claymore with deadly, practiced efficiency, was the only warning he had that a foe had snuck up behind him. Spinning around and away, he barely managed to evade two bloodstained daggers that had been swept at him. His adversary let out a growl of frustration at the sight, having gambled on the benefit of stealth and lost. The growl cut off abruptly as Alexis slammed the spiked pommel on his sword into his face, the blow shattering his skull and puncturing the brain beneath. The man dropped into an undignified heap.

Looking around, he saw Dismas pull out a second pistol, not bothering to reload the first, and place a lead ball into a running bandit's back. A few yards away from him, Reynauld was facing down a rogue of truly impressive proportions. However, the brigand had chosen poorly in regards to the weaponry he carried, as the hail of cat o' nine tails blows that he rained down upon the crusader broke upon the warrior's plate and flowed off him like water, leaving only minute scratches as proof of his struggles. An attempt to bring out more effective ordinance in the form of a hulking pistol shoved into Reynauld's face resulted in the holy soldier casually lopping off the unprotected hand that held it. As the behemoth of a man wailed in pain at the sudden loss of his limb, Reynauld's blade flashed once more, opening up the man's chest to the outside world. The outlaw toppled forward, the thud of his body hitting the ground in harmony with the gruesome splat that signaled his organs falling to earth at the same time. The twin sounds signaled, in their own way, the end of the fight.

Reynauld, having handily sidestepped the aftereffects of his bladework, turned to look at Alexis and Dismas as the pair took in his martial abilities, the former impressed and the latter impassive as always.

"Shall we move on?" he panted.

With a nod and a jerk of his head, Alexis resumed their hike, a bit slower and more aware than he had been previously.

* * *

Disappointment. That was what he felt. Not angry, not upset, disappointment.

Alexis, Dismas, and Reynauld stood astride a cliff edge that overlooked the crumbling, rotted remnants of the hamlet that had taken them the better part of a day to reach after the coach had crashed. All Alexis could feel at this accomplishment, however, was disappointment.

This was what he had to work with? A rundown, abandoned village and an untrustworthy blackguard, with only one good man as a redeeming factor? He would be lucky if his expedition did not fall into ruin inside of a week at this rate.

Weary feet propelled the trio down the hillside and toward the rusted gates that hung halfway off their hinges. All they wanted now was a drink and a bed, the rest of their worries could wait until the sun arose tomorrow.

Fate, however, is a fickle mistress on the best of days. And today had not been the best of days.

"Greetings my Lord!" came a familiar voice as Alexis shoved open one gate. A suspiciously familiar voice. The following half-insane cackle confirmed his thoughts and raised a multitude more. Was this man not supposed to be dead? Had he not seen the body? He turned to face the location of the origin of the voice.

"Welcome home, Prodigal Son," the supposedly-deceased coach driver said with a mockery of a bow, his hand sweeping to encompass the ruined hamlet, the twisted forest, and the hill crowned by the remains of his family's ancestral estate.

"Welcome home."


	3. Corridors of the Lost

_When death comes_

 _I'll need not grace_

 _Below; no grieving face_

 _Will call my resurrection_

 _And when I'm at ground –_

 _Death and I so bound._

\- Mark R Slaughter

 _Chapter 2: Corridors of the Lost_

Bored. That was what he was. Stupefyingly bored. Ever since their arrival in this rundown excuse for civilization, there had been nothing to do, and no one to converse with. The pompous crusader had headed off for the abbey, claiming the need to purify his spirit or something, while their benefactor had quickly claimed one of the most opulent buildings left in the hamlet, that is to say, one that had managed to retain its roof.

Dismas snorted beneath his bandana, drawing curious looks from the few patrons of the tavern that he had practically made his own. The sheer arrogance and pretentiousness of Alexis, or as he demanded he be called, Lord Alexis Banecroft VIII, was something to be marveled at. Not even the holy warrior could come close to matching it, and that was saying something. The man was not even a true member of the nobility, just a mere pretender according to his limited understanding. The man had given him a long spiel after hauling him away from the angry city guards to his tiny place of residence on how to address him properly, in addition to an undoubtedly filtered family history that supposedly explained the, to quote the man himself, 'righteousness inherent within our purpose.' The speech reminded him, in a way, of the priests within their towering and imposing cathedrals proselytizing to the poor, unwashed masses of humanity that flooded in faithfully every day.

Dismas, for his part, had barely listened to the words spilling out of the man's mouth, knowing horseshit and rhetoric when he heard it, only bothering to tune back in when the man began to talk about the one thing that he really cared about: coin. More than anything else, he had joined for the gold that he was promised in return for his skills. Perhaps more philosophical men would have needed to convince themselves with more abstract reasons and more complex motives, but for him, coin was enough. With coin came freedom. Freedom from debt, freedom from restrictions, freedom to be his own man. Let the moralizers agonize over their ethical qualms. So long as the coin flowed, that was good enough for Dismas.

It was one of these coins that he pushed across the warped wooden plank that made up the bar to the aged tavernkeep that was watching him with a wary eye. He and Reynauld had been paid well, not handsomely, not poorly, but merely well, for their efforts in making sure their honorable lord had reached the hamlet safely, and it was because of that honorable lord that Dismas was now having to leave the tavern for the first time in days. Alexis had demanded that he convene with him, although the man's flowery language had changed the wording of such a summons into something approaching a request for his presence in a meeting. Such pretenses were not hard to see through after a lifetime of living amongst those who strode to place themselves above the other blackguards.

Hopping off his stool and flashing a wink at the barmaid, he made his way through the smoky haze that permeated the tavern, opening the battered door that hung loosely on its frame to the outside world. No light came rushing in through the doorway to greet him and envelop him in his embrace, for such an act would require there to be light gracing the outside world in the first place. Instead a miasma of black and gray clouds, indicative of even more rain, hung low over the hamlet, contributing to the steady drizzle that had dignified the village ever since their arrival. It was difficult to tell whether it was day or night in this place, the darkness that saturated the area only broken by the light of manmade torches, no ray of sunlight seemingly daring to brave the cloud cover.

"This prissy upstart better have something important to say if he's dragging me out into this," muttered Dismas as he hunched beneath his coat in a vain effort to keep at least some of the rain out. Slogging through the deep, sucking mud that threatened to claim ownership of his boots with every step, he made his way past buildings that had long ago breathed their last, rotten beams, broken stones, and shattered panes all that remained to harken back to the glory days of these lands.

Finally he reached the lone building that remained in somewhat decent shape in the hamlet, a two-story house that might as well have been a mansion when compared to the other still-standing homes that jutted upright from the ruined landscape. Not bothering with knocking, he instead settled for applying both his shoulder and a liberal amount of force to the door, revealing a well-lit and warmed dwelling place to the elements. Trinkets and baubles were strewn about here and there, strategically placed to give the impression of majesty and supremacy. A rather mediocre display in Dismas' mind. He had once seen a crime lord completely gild his quarters in gold leaf, before Dismas had redecorated the walls with crimson splashes of the man's blood while he was working for his rival. Powerful men bled just the same as the common man, no matter how prettied up their lodgings were, an inconvenient fact that powerful men did their hardest to forget. Many succeeded. Many paid for their willful ignorance, and their coin, so proudly displayed, lined his pockets afterwards. Perhaps Alexis would be counted amongst their numbers.

Dismas shook his head. As tempting as that train of thought was, he was not as stupid as to act upon it. There was coin to be made in Alexis' service, and removing the man's head would not only remove the flow of said coin, but also most likely end up with him having his own head removed. So Alexis would live. For now.

Turning away from the assorted knickknacks, Dismas made his way up the stairs to the second floor, his muddy boots leaving a well-mapped trail behind him. Alexis would be pissed about the mess no doubt, but then again, Dismas barely gave a damn about what Alexis thought. Opening the door to the man's study, he took note of Reynauld standing stock still in the middle of the room before Alexis' desk, over which Alexis was currently bent, studying what looked to be like a map. He also immediately noticed that there were more people than just Reynauld and Alexis waiting for him. Two more, specifically.

"So glad you could finally join us," Alexis' voice snapped Dismas' attention back towards the man. He had not meant to stare, at least not so obviously, but the presence of these newcomers meant something big was about to go down. A slight twinge in his stomach was all he needed to know that he was probably going to be dragged right into the middle of it too.

He forced the feeling down. Nothing to be done about it now. "You wanted me?" he asked. A stupid question, of course the man had wanted him, but then, such questions tended to raise Alexis' hackles, and that was always fun to watch.

Queue Alexis' eyes narrowing slightly, almost imperceptibly. Bullseye. However, the upstart managed to keep his reactions confined to said narrowing. So. The pretender noble had most likely received news of some sort in addition to that map. Good news for him, bad news for people like old Dismas.

"Yes, the excavation crews sent me word this morning, they have managed to open up an entrance down into the old catacombs." Alexis' response was all Dismas needed to send his heart plummeting down into his stomach. No doubt the social-climbing upstart wanted them to go down there and clear out all the nasties so his workers could plunder it dry.

"I want Reynauld and you to venture down there and make sure it is safe for my people to begin mapping out the tunnels," Alexis continued. Dismas hated it when he was right. Why could the man not have proposed they all head back to the tavern and drink themselves silly? Oh right, because the man was a prudish arsehole determined to ruin Dismas' fun while putting his life in danger. Man had probably never even had an actual drink before either. "To that end, I have also had two more people brought in to assist you with this task."

Finally, they were on to the one topic Dismas was curious about, even if said topic was tied into the other, less pleasant topic. Alexis motioned towards the figure wearing a beaked plague mask leaning against the wall, next to the oversized window that dominated its length. "This is Vesli, a specialist in the field of diseases. She will be tagging along with the two of you in order to ensure no potential plague ails you, and through you, unleashed upon the rest of us." "Another motion, this time towards the figure dressed in sacred vestments sitting in the lavish chair in the corner. The movement drew the woman's eyes upwards from the book she had until now been engrossed with. "This is Montbrai, a vestal of the Holy Order. She will also be joining your group to sanctify whatever lies within. I know not what caused my ancestor's downfall, but I will not be unprepared in matters spiritual."

Dismas saw Reynauld give the holy woman a nod of respect out of the corner of his eye. Although he could not see it, he could feel the follow-up glare burning the side of his face when he failed to repeat the gesture. Oh well. He was sure the gods were devastated.

"I have already had supplies prepared for your trip, and expect you all to be ready to set off tomorrow morning. There is no telling what you will be facing down there, so make yourselves ready accordingly. Any questions?"

Silence hung over the room for the next few moments. When no reply was forthcoming, Alexis nodded, seemingly satisfied. "Excellent. Reynauld, I place this expedition within your qualified hands. Bring back good tidings for my house."

Dismas' eyes narrowed involuntarily even as he fought the outward reaction. The crusader's fist clashed against the steel that girded his chest in affirmation while thoughts ran rampant through the pathways of the rogue's mind. Dismas would be the first, no matter how grudgingly, to admit that Reynauld was the best choice to lead the team. The man had valuable experience in leading from his time in service to the Order of Holy Retribution, the militant arm of the church, as compared to himself, who preferred working alone and from the shadows. Still, neither of them had bonded in any sense of the word, with Dismas viewing the holy warrior as a musclebound zealot, and Reynauld being eager to deliver justice upon the other for his record of petty crimes. The few jobs Dismas had worked in a group had taught him that the only thing that kept men working together was the promise of a healthily-sized reward after the completion. Yet the reward for this job was not as enticing as Dismas would have liked, and Reynauld's type usually could not care less for earthly compensations. This could turn potentially lethal for Dismas should the man decide that righteous reckoning was more worth his time rather than the delegated task. An outcome he wholeheartedly wished to avoid. In the end, there was no profit in dying.

Still, if he could keep the faith-fueled warrior pointed in the direction of whatever awaited them in the murky blackness that had settled heavily over the ancient catacombs, then he had a good chance of coming out of this, if not unscathed, then at least with his skull still intact, as opposed to splattered against a long forgotten wall. Yes, Dismas thought as his feet moved him unconsciously out of the study and back to the tavern, ignoring the angry shouts that erupted from Alexis' mouth as the man finally noticed the muck that had been introduced all over his floor by him, that would be fairly easy to do, at least.

He only hoped the rest of the trip would prove be equally as unchallenging. The best kind of profit was the type earned without breaking a sweat, after all.

* * *

Pain erupted through his skull as he forced his bleary eyes open to behold the grungy room that surrounded him. A small part of him wished that he had much nicer things to wake up to, like a woman, before the rest of his barely conscious mind shoved said part away and forced his hands to grab the nearest bottle in hopes of finding some relief from the hangover that was currently wreaking havoc on his brain. Finding the bottle to be empty, he lazily dropped it back onto the ground, wincing slightly at the resulting thud. Oh well, no one could fault him for trying, he supposed.

Pushing himself up with a groan, he quickly began readying himself for the expedition, thankful he had had the presence of mind to prepare last night, before the alcohol had begun flowing too freely. In this state he most likely would have forgotten his pistols, an unacceptable lapse of memory. Jamming the last packet of black powder into one of his coat's many internal pockets, he quietly made his way out the tavern's door and towards the meeting point, still unable to judge what time it was. Maybe the others had left without him if it was late enough. A man could dream, right?

Sadly, the noble lady known as Luck had apparently turned her gaze upon some other individual as the others were waiting for him as he arrived at the ragged tent that marked the beginning of their descent and held their supplies. The plague specialist, Vesli if he remembered correctly, nodded to him in greeting, while Reynauld merely cast a cursory glance his way before going back to rummaging through his pack. The vestal did not even deign to look up from that book she eternally had her nose in. Wordlessly, he walked over and examined the contents of the pack that had been designated as his.

Food, water, a pair of torches, a tinderbox, some bandages and a vial of antivenin was the sight that graced his eyes. Light traveling kit then. Obviously Alexis did not mean for them to range far beneath the earth. That suited him just fine.

Speak the name of the daemon and it shall appear, so the saying went, and so did Alexis appear at the entrance at the tent almost as soon as the thought had crossed his mind. Arms crossed, the upstart glanced at the four of them as they turned to face him.

"I came to see you four off," Dismas could barely contain the groan that instantaneously welled up within him as the man began. Another speech? Could the man not simply realize that they had no use for the hot air that spilled out of him every time he opened his mouth? "The work you undertake is vital to restoring this land and the fortunes of my house. For this you have my undying gratitude. Go forth my friends, knowing that the gods watch over you, and that you shall be victorious this day."

Beneath his tattered bandana, Dismas sneered. No doubt the man thought it was a rousing speech, a display to enflame their spirits and courage. In reality, the speech was perhaps the most uninspiring thing Dismas had heard in his years as an underling. No doubt the whole thing was naught more than a rote memorization of something read years ago, dredged up to be served to the group. All he wanted to do was be off already and be done with all of this.

Taking the lead, Reynauld exited the tent and headed towards the tunnel entrance that would lead them into the catacombs below, the rest of the group following him. Drawing the massive claymore off his back, he motioned onwards into the dark, before the darkness, black as the void itself, swallowed him whole. Dismas hesitated a step at the gaping maw that sat waiting patiently in front of him, before he too began his descent into the gloom that so readily accepted him.

* * *

Haunting shadows cast their gazes wearily over the four interlopers who dared to tread in their domain. How long had it been since fresh meat had stalked these halls, bearing those anathemas, fire and faith? How long had it been since they had feasted upon those same fools who had thought themselves invincible before the long slow grind of time and death itself? The darkness had no concept for such matters, these trivial problems that so plagued mortals were their very essence, and they would not be denied their meal, not after so long.

The shadows shifted a hairsbreadth, roiling and billowing beneath the calm façade they projected. The darkness would feast once more, after centuries of hunger. These mortals and those who followed after them would be the harbinger of a new dawn, no matter how unwittingly. Their lifeblood would empower That-Which-Rules-Below, and their flesh would stave off the eternal hunger that gnawed at what shreds were left of their souls.

Shapes detached from the inky blackness. Now was the time to hunt and kill.

* * *

Dismas glanced around warily, the dancing lights given form by his torch creating illusions and impressions on the crumbling stone walls around them. How long had they been wandering down here? An hour? Two? Three? Time had no meaning down in this lightless hole.

Already the group had mapped out a sizable portion of the slowly-disintegrating catacombs, the passageways wide enough for three men to walk abreast and around four meters high, yet no matter how far their feet dared to tred, it seemed that there was always another hallway or another half-collapsed room to wander through. Other passageways had been blocked by fallen rubble, hinting at even deeper fingers of stone twisting their way through the blackened earth.

Despite the length of their journey, however, they had failed to come upon anything worthwhile so far. No rooms of any seeming importance had been uncovered, no long-forgotten treasures graced their pockets. Nothing. Just one soulless, empty hallway after another, the monotony broken up by the occasional rotted door that heralded another soulless, empty room. This whole expedition was shaping up to be a gigantic waste of Dismas' time, time that would have been better spent washing down beer at the tavern while chasing after the skirts that graced it, haggard and plain though the faces that were attached to said skirts were.

Dismas' eyes slid back from watching the images that danced against the walls to the armored back of the man in front of him. Reynauld had insisted on leading, which suited him just fine. If the fool wanted to be the first to lose his head when danger came knocking, Dismas had no complaints in the matter. The armored man was better suited for the position anyways.

Behind him he could hear the specialist shifting through her bag, the faint clinking of glass vials amplified by several magnitudes in the near total silence that pervaded the air all around them. It seemed to be something as a nervous tic, as this was the third time she had done such. Behind her was the holy woman Montbrai, muttering incantations from her ever-present book. Fat lot of help those two had proven so far. Dismas had no idea what Alexis had been thinking when he had sent two soft women with them, especially considering how they had yet do to actually do anything. By the four layers of Hell itself, none of them had done anything down here. What was the real purpose of their descent into this darkness?

A sudden, subtle, yet not unnoticeable shift in the stale atmosphere surrounding them suggested to him that he was about to receive the answer to that question, although he would most likely not enjoy the retort.

* * *

How dare these warm-blooded fleshlings tred upon the holy grounds of that That-Which-Rules-Below? Did they truly not realize the presence of destiny when it bore heavily upon them?

They would pay dearly for their ignorance. To commit such acts was heresy in the eyes of their dark lord, and they were the extensions of Its terrible will. Not the shambling monstrosities that roamed the blighted forest, not the beastmen that stalked the ancient ratways, nor the twisted creatures that lurked within the darkened caves that dotted the coastline. To punish fools such as these was one of their many sacred duties, and one they would carry out gleefully.

In the name of the Elder Being, none of these heathens would be allowed to continue their sacrilege. In the name of the Darkness-Given-Form, the heretics would die.

* * *

It was interesting how swiftly fortunes turned in this land, Dismas mused as darkness swiftly claimed the group, swarming over them when his torch clattered to the ground as he grasped for his weapons. One moment the oppressive silence had been content to reign dominant over them as it had since they had first entered the catacombs, and in the next moment its throne had been usurped by the sound of many armored feet pounding through the various hallways, converging upon their location. No shouts or other human noises accompanied the discordant sounds that had shattered the illusion of aloneness that the group had previously been enjoying, setting Dismas' skin crawling as his imagination ran wild for a brief second. The things he had seen during his trek through the forest, and the things he had not seen, had been enough to warm him to the idea that nothing was sacred in these lands, and that no monstrosity was too twisted to be real.

Dismas was not a religious man, he had no use for the gods and those who walked the earth, claiming to be their heralds. But Dismas was a practical man. Just because he had no use for the gods and their works did not mean he doubted their authenticity. By extension, he had no doubts that the horrors rushing to face them, to devour the fiber of their very beings, were real. And so it was the practical man who yanked the dagger from its sheath, the edge honed to a killing sharpness, with his right hand, while the left hand pulled the flintlock pistol from its holster on his thigh. In front of him Reynauld lifted his massive claymore into a battle-ready stance, the holy runes that littered paths up and down the edge gleaming in the gloom. Behind him, the vestal's chants became even louder and more intense, while the clinking of vials picked up an urgent tone.

When the first creature rounded the corner ahead of them, it was all Dismas could do to not freeze up in terror. He, who had killed dozens of men over the span of his life without so much as a shred of guilt or regret, stared in horror as the twisted creature of rotting flesh and exposed bones turned its rictus leer upon him as it rushed towards him, half-rusted blade ready to skewer him.

Said creature suddenly became two creatures as Reynauld let out a roar of righteous indignation and clove it in twain. As the two halves clattered to the floor, Dismas snapped out of his trance and leveled his pistol at the half dozen enemies that had rounded the corner in the time that it had taken for the previous foe to die.

The hammer on the weapon snapped downwards as Dismas gently, almost lovingly, caressed the trigger, bringing the hammer slamming down onto the frizzen, igniting the gunpowder within the pistol. The quick spark of flame launched the pistol ball stored within the barrel forwards with lethal velocity, its progress only halted as it slammed into the skull of one of the sneering undead faces that pounded onwards towards the living that dared to intrude in their hunting grounds. The rest of the monsters continued forward, uncaring of the chips of bone that rained down upon them as their brother's skull burst into a thousand pieces and the thundering reverbs that bellowed forth from the pistol.

Dismas could see, but not hear, the vial that had just been flung over his head as it burst open in the ranks of the enemy. His ears still rang from the discharge that had been amplified by the confined space to almost god-like levels, as if the thunder god himself had smote his enemy down. The vial had been thrown well, the dissolving acid that had been stored within eating away at anything it touched. Two more freaks went down, missing limbs here and there, but still they crawled onwards, uncaring of the devastation that had been wrought upon their forms, hissing their hatred as they came. Blast and damnation, but this was not the type of scrap that Dismas preferred to engage in.

"Smite now the abominations of the dead!" shouted Reynauld, his sword lashing out to claim the unlife of another foe, this one clad in ragged leather armor and wielding an ancient axe. Dismas was suddenly glad to have the crusader along with them. If any of them had any chance of standing against these foes, it was Reynauld.

The second of the remaining enemies reached him, slipping past Reynauld as the first walking skeleton to reach them engaged the holy soldier. This one proved to be surprisingly limber, despite the sense of antiquity that seemed to pour off its bones. It dodged below Dismas' first strike, though its resulting position left it unable to retaliate for a crucial moment. Seizing the opening, Dismas quickly reversed the movement of his dagger, slicing diagonally to nearly sever the thing's right arm, the limb held on only by a mere thread of decayed sinew. Such a blow, however, did not slow the beast even in the slightest, as it recovered from the strike within the blink of an eye to return the favor, dragging its blade horizontally across Dismas' chest, cutting through the boiled leather overcoat. The resulting gash flowed freely, hot red blood pouring down over his stomach while blinding white pain lanced upwards into his mind.

Dismas gritted his teeth against the pain, grunting as he caught the skeleton in a vicious right hook across what little remained of its cheek. Calloused knuckles split open against jagged bone, but the blow was enough to unbalance it long enough for Dismas to plunge his dagger into the shriveled remains of the creature's black heart. Dismas took a moment to spit on the corpse as it toppled to the ground.

"That was my favorite coat," he muttered as he glanced up. Reynauld had dealt with his foe and was currently dispatching the two maimed skeletons in brutal fashion, his steel-clad heel shattering their bodies where they lay. A resounding crunch caused him to whirl around, in time to see Montbrai shatter a skeleton that had tried to sneak up behind them into a dozen pieces with a blow from her wooden club. Clearly she had some experience in breaking bones, given the ease with which she performed the move. So, maybe she was not dead weight after all.

Another spike of pain forced a grimace to spread across his face as he looked down to inspect the wound that had blossomed across his chest. Nothing too serious, just a flesh wound that would leave an impressive scar, although he would have to have the plague specialist have a look at it later to ensure that the wound did not fester. No telling what filth had resided on the skeleton's rusty blade, and Dismas had not made it this far in life by being stupid.

"Oi, Reynauld," he called to the crusader, who was still staring at the two skeleton that he had shattered very thoroughly. The man jolted back to the present, abruptly pulled out of whatever reverie he had decided to engage in, and fixed the annoyed glare that seemed omnipresent whenever he had to interact with Dismas.

"We need to keep moving," the crusader said in response to Dismas' unasked question, his armor clanking as he glanced back towards the direction which the skeletons had appeared from. "Where there is one foul undead, there is always dozens more skulking about, awaiting their turn to be purged from the realm of the gods."

"That stuck-up holier-than-thou isn't paying us anywheres near enough to fight these things," Dismas argued back. "In fact, we were supposed to map out these tunnels, nothing more. We've already done that, so let's get the hell out of here!"

"We must destroy this infection, we can do no less," Reynauld returned just as hotly. "If you feel you are inadequate for this task, then you are free to return by yourself. The rest of us shall press onwards and clear out these blasphemers." With those words, he turned back around, shouldering his claymore as he did so, and set off further into the darkness.

Behind him, Vesli lit up her torch and set off after him, Montbrai in tow, leaving Dismas in the darkness as he glowered at their disappearing backs.

The sound of more figures moving behind him in the dark made up his mind, though he accepted the decision with ill grace. Snarling slightly behind his bandana, he jogged off after the trio, ignoring the bursts of pain that jumped up to greet him as his feet pounded on the ancient stone beneath them.

A stubborn man was Dismas, a practical man was Dismas. But a fool was Dismas not. He knew when he was defeated, but that did not mean he had to like it.

As his eyes picked up the faint light of Vesli's torch flickering around a distant corner, all he could do was hope that he came out of this damnfool decision in one piece.


	4. Fallen So Far

_I fear not death_

 _Death is not mine._

 _Why should I fear death?_

 _When I have no connection_

 _With death I do not care death._

 _Death is going its own way_

 _And I am absolutely separate_

 _From death and in no way_

 _Related to death._

 _Why should I fear death?_

\- gajanan mishra

 _Chapter 3: Fallen So Far_

The sound of pounding feet caused him to turn around, platemail clicking in protest at the movement, in time to see the hurrying figure of Dismas rejoining the group. Eyes narrowed behind the slit that comprised the man's visor as they took in the somewhat battered form of the rogue, with his slashed jacket and bloody shirt. It was wrong of him to think so, he knew, but a portion of him wished that the man had taken even more of a beating in the fight.

The man known to the world as Reynauld snorted softly behind his helmet as he turned back towards the darkness that awaited them. No, not a fight. There had been no cohesion, no organization in the group of blasphemous dead that had rushed to attack them. Whoever had controlled them had merely been gauging the strength of the band of interlopers. There was no doubt that the next assault would be much better planned, and much more deadly.

A feral grin ripped across his face at the thought of crushing more of their vile frames beneath his steel-shod feet. He quickly forced himself to return to a neutral expression, however, chastising himself as he did so. There was joy to be found in duty, to be sure, but a member of the Holy Knights was not to indulge in such feelings. Discipline and faith were the strengths of the righteous warrior. Bloodthirsty zealotry had its own place to be sure, but to allow such feelings to control one's actions outside of combat, even if for a second, was a sure path to damnation and the four layers of Hell themselves. He would have to purify himself through prayer after they returned to the Hamlet later for the lapse in composure.

He risked a quick peek back at the assembled members of the group, keeping his senses alert as he did so. Dismas had taken up position behind and to the right of him, while the two women were alternating between watching out for any monsters sneaking up behind them and keeping the torch in an optimal position. He let out a tiny grunt in approval. Any heathen forms would have a most difficult time ambushing them with such a formation, preventing a return of the situation that had overtaken them in the last fight.

Sharpened hearing picked out the faint sounds of hissing emanating from ruined throats and the slapping of rotting flesh against moldy stone. Another onslaught, larger this time, and it would soon be upon them. His studded greaves thudded against the stone floor as his legs propelled him forward purposefully. Let them come, they would fall before his blade and his faith.

* * *

The man – if he had once been a man, he could no longer remember much – peered out of the darkness at the forms that were rapidly becoming more defined as he advanced towards them. The light from the torch they held would have ruined his vision, so accustomed as it was to the utter blackness that pervaded all down in the catacombs and the chambers within, if he had still been bound by the rules of mortality, but he had shed such constraints decades ago.

Once he had served. He could remember that much. A faithful servant to That-Which-Rules-Below. For his years of unending toil in the name of the Elder Being, he had been chosen, transformed, his flesh flayed from his body strip by strip until naught but bone remained while words that warped the very fabric of reality were brazenly spoken aloud over his form, which was prostrated before an altar decorated with the strewn remains of the unfaithful and engraved with symbols that caused lesser men to devolve into gibbering wrecks when looked upon. The ensuing pain had been terrible, shattering and rebuilding his mind several times over the course of the ritual, but the reward for enduring it had been even greater. Freed from the sickly life he had once lived, he had been granted salvation through blessed undeath, his reflexes now much faster and his senses far keener than they ever had been. Ever since, he had sought to repay his debt to the Darkness-Given-Form. Now a chance had arisen, and he would joyfully massacre in Its name.

Perhaps one day It would reward him for his continued service and grant him a glimpse of Its twisted majesty, Its horrific beauty. But first, he would have to prove himself worthy of such honors.

He raised a rusted battle-axe with the withered husk of his right arm, its desecrated visage belying its true strength, while his left raised a wooden buckler. A simple vest of iron chainmail rattled and slid across his skeletal form with every step he took, a trophy from the last interloper he had slain.

The mindless forms around him gurgled, moaned, and hissed as they picked up speed, their simple, rotted minds bent only on killing. As for he, no battle cry slipped past where his lips once had been, for the implacable advance of death needed no herald. He would let the decaying forms of his foes be his voice of worship to It, another psalm to the unending glory of That-Which-Rules-Below.

* * *

Reynauld had heard them approaching before he had seen them, but now his nose could also sense their approach before his eyes did. The sickly sweet stench of death and decay plied at his nostrils coyly even as the muted groans sought purchase in both his ears and his heart.

He shrugged the bastard sword off his shoulder, grasping the hilt with both of his hands as he soundlessly prayed for strength from the gods. To know one's limits was good. To have those limits bolstered and extended by the divine was better.

Vitality flooded through his muscles as the gods heard and responded to his pleas, leaving him giddy with the onrush of adrenaline that flowed through his mind. Let the unclean come! He would destroy each and every last one of them himself!

Some small part of him, however, remained rational and slowly reasserted itself, regaining enough control over his mind and suppressing the rush of emotions slightly so as to assess the situation. The group had just entered a large room with an arching ceiling, the heights of which were lost in shadow. Large stone pillars stretched upwards to support the weight of the ceiling, though two lay smashed and ruined on the floor, the rubble strewn haphazardly here and there, as though spread by an spoiled child in the midst of a tantrum. The light cast by the lone lit torch, in comparison with the size of the room, seemed like the proverbial drop in a bucket.

Absentmindedly he considered falling back to the hallway, forcing the enemy to confront them on more equal footing, rather than risking them becoming surrounded. However, the rational portion of his mind knew that if they did so, it was possible that the creatures would be willing to simply wait for them to eventually make a move, rather than just charging blindly. Such tactics were rare indeed, but not wholly unheard of, and had been the bane of more than a few unwary crusaders. In addition, the creatures would have to be destroyed sooner or later, and the part of his mind that howled to be unleashed against his foes demanded it be much sooner rather than any later. The rest of his mind could not muster any sort of argument against that. So they remained where they stood, a tiny wedge of humanity against the tides of the damned.

The edge of his blade gleamed as Vesli placed her torch in a conveniently shaped hole in a nearby piece of debris, allowing her to free both of her hands up for combat. Good. They would need all of their strength to survive what approached.

* * *

He could see them more clearly now, the torchlight no longer affecting his vision as it had when they had first seen the invaders enter the sacred chamber. They were not moving from their chosen position, which suited him just fine. They were out in the open, and the lesser beings that mobbed around him numbered nearly a score.

If the sacrifices wished to meet the Darkness-Given-Form quickly, then he would eagerly grant them their wish.

The empty eye sockets that graced his face fell upon the man at the forefront of the band, a figure resplendent in platemail and bearing a large sword. The unholy energies that resided in the holes and granted him vision ached simply glancing at him, a sensation he thought he had left behind so long ago. This one was anathema. This one was a heretic. This one would die by his hand and have his soul ripped screaming from his corpse for daring to so boldly defy It.

There would be much glory for him this day.

* * *

"There will be much glory for us this day," Reynauld intoned as he gazed upon the group of undead that was surging towards them. Almost two dozen, and what appeared to be a champion amongst them. He would take much pleasure in this fight.

Dismas shifted behind him, clearly undesirous of the honors to be won. "Glory means nothin' to me," he said, turning his head, pulling his bandana down with his hand in the same motion, and spitting off into the gloom. "Living, on the other hand, does."

Coward.

"You shame us with your words and actions," Reynauld said disgustedly, "faith in the gods and our skill with our weapons will see us through this."

He could not see Dismas' silent response, but he was sure that a few inventive gestures were made at his back.

"The taint of the restless dead is no match for warriors in whom conviction abounds," came a voice from behind him. Montbrai, reciting the fifth Catechism of Crusading, and the first words that he had heard leave her mouth that day. An old favorite of his, written well over three hundred years ago.

"The taint of the restless dead is no match for warriors in whom conviction abounds," he echoed back.

The horde was nearly upon them.

* * *

He stopped, though the forms around him had no such compunctions. They rushed onwards, straight onto the blades that awaited them, breaking upon the defense like a wave upon a cliff.

He watched impassively as the crusader swung his sword around as if it weighed nothing, beheading two of the lesser creatures in one swipe, before cutting another into two twitching pieces with the return sweep.

He strode forward as the bandana-wearing man unloaded his pistol into the face of a zombie, completing the ruination that had been begun with a tossed vial from the woman wearing a plague mask standing in the back.

He raised his axe as the other woman, a priestess of the false gods judging by her dress, called forth a burst of power that illuminated the darkness, staggering the remaining forms and allowing her comrades to cut them down with renewed zeal.

Reaching the holy warrior just as he cut down another of the punished ones that had accompanied him, he brought the blade of his axe crashing downwards, the unholy runes that lined the haft and the edge glittering wickedly. The man brought up his massive sword in time for a parry, the inscribed scriptures that flowed along the blade glowing in response.

A faint sigh escaped his mouth, sounding more like a wheeze as it did. Too long had it been since he had faced a real challenge.

* * *

Finally, a real challenge.

The enemy leader, if it had even actually led, had reached him just as his weapon had lain open a shambling monstrosity from collarbone to sternum. He had underestimated it then, thinking it simply another one of the mindless beings that had tried in vain to drag him down, clawing and gnashing at him all the while.

That was then, and this was now. When the creature had brought its runed weapon down with a swiftness that belied its imposing bulk, he had barely enough time to parry. Since then, most of the rest of the creatures had been brought low by his companions, and the rest were being finished off while the pair continued their dance of death.

Reynauld slammed his sword down, even as the creature raised the wooden buckler affixed to its left arm up in defense. Though the shield looked to be naught more than rotten wood barely held together by a few strips of rusted metal, he could feel the reverberations traveling up his arms as his weapon merely bounced off of it. So, bolstered by whatever foul and twisted magics that were most likely cousin to the powers that kept this damnable thing from simply falling apart.

A lightning quick blow smashed into him, the motion a blur even to his trained eyes. It failed to do any real damage, at least from what he could tell at the moment, but the pain, no doubt amplified by the runes, creeped its way throughout his chest. He hissed as he pulled back for his next strike, determined to end the fight before he was injured seriously. There were, after all, limits to the miracles that the gods granted unto men of faith. Reattaching one's severed head to his limp body was not one of them.

He feinted low and swung high, the strike badly damaging the shield arm of his foe. He grinned savagely behind his helmet as his opponent took on a more defensive stance. None could escape the judgment of the gods, and he was their instrument in this dark place.

* * *

There were many sensations that he had lost upon his blessed transfiguration. Base human emotions that plagued those of the flesh constrained him no longer. So it was when the warrior ruined his arm, there was no pain that rushed to overwhelm his brain. However, there were flickers of something he thought he had also lost when he had ascended. Fear. Not panic, for that was truly gone, but honest fear and disquiet that bode ill for him.

He quickly shifted his stance, hoping to slowly withdraw into the darkness, deterring his enemy from moving beyond the torchlight and into the reach of his axe.

A loud crack heralded the fall of the last of base wretches that had occupied the attentions of the other three fleshlings. He needed to move, and now.

In his haste, however, he made one fatal mistake.

He had backed up three steps, confident that he would be gone before the trio of blasphemers that rushed to the aid of the crusader arrived. However, he failed to see the loose debris that was scattered about underfoot, and lost his footing for one crucial second on one such stone. He desperately fought to right himself, only to regain his footing in time to see the holy warrior's sword come crashing down upon his chain coif.

His skull came bursting apart in a shower of bone under the force of the strike, the metal covering doing nothing to stop or deflect the blow. As his soul rushed to exit his now rapidly slumping body, he could see, if only for the briefest of moments, the look of exultant triumph upon his foe's face. Then his sight left the mortal plane, and all he could see was It, laughing maniacally as it devoured the soul of Its once blessed child.

He who was once a man could do nothing but scream in horror and hatred for the eternity it would take for the Elder Being to savor his essence.

* * *

The feral smirk never left Reynauld's face as he turned around to his now slowly approaching companions, their haste having left them once they had seen him slay the desecrated warrior in front of him. They all bore wounds, though praise be to the gods that none of those wounds were deep. Dismas had acquired another slash, this time to his right arm, while Vesli and Montbrai both bore numerous bite and claw marks. A fairly clean sweep by any standard.

"Well done, my friends!" he started. "We have cleansed this place of the restless dead with our faith and-" The rest of the words that had been forming on his tongue never escaped as Dismas stalked up to him and coldcocked him. He staggered backwards slightly from the blow, aware of the noise of finger bones producing a loud series of cracking noises as he did, evidence that Dismas would not be using that hand for a while. Gods, he was uncertain whether or not his helmet was undented after a blow like that.

"You fuckin' bastard!" Dismas screamed at him, unmindful of the loud echoes that the large room was producing. "You absolute fuckin' bastard!" He struggled to hit Reynauld again even with the two women holding back as well as they could.

"What in the name of the gods has gotten into you man?" Reynauld demanded even as he adjusted his helmet so that he could see out of it again.

"What's gotten into me? What's gotten into me?!" The man's struggles became even fiercer at this, though Montbrai and Vesli still managed to restrain him while Reynauld walked up to him and glared through his visor. "We nearly got killed while you were off pretendin' to be some big hero, all because you insisted we go prancin' about down here, when we shoulda been clearin' out! And you ask what's gotten into me?!"

The backhand that Reynauld dealt him snapped his head around, knocking that infernal bandana loose in the process, and shut him up. Reynauld was certain that the man would be feeling the aftereffects of that blow the entire trek back to the Hamlet, even as the man spit of a glob of blood and phlegm onto the stone floor at his feet.

"I was entrusted with the role of leader in this righteous task," he snarled in the rogue's face, bending over to be as close as possible. "Lord Alexis placed me in command, and as such, you are expected to follow my every command, thief. Be grateful that we are not in the Order, for I would have already struck you down for your insubordination. As it stands, Lord Alexis _will_ hear about this."

Dismas' eyes narrowed, but he ceased his struggling, not making another attempt at striking him even after the women released him. Apparently the rogue had decided that risking Reynauld's temper any more than he already had could prove to be decidedly lethal. He was not wrong.

Straightening back up, Reynauld looked at the group. "We head back. Our appointed task is done, and a large group of the restless dead has been destroyed. We have done well this day."

With those words, he pushed his way past Dismas none too gently and began making his way back towards the tunnel they had entered the room from. A good day, marred by the faithless and their doubts. He needed to pray.

* * *

The group stood in Alexis' study. They had returned after a few hours of backtracking, though the return trip was much shorter than the initial foray, and Reynauld had insisted that they all be present when he reported their findings, especially the part that concerned the undead they had encountered.

Alexis, for his part, looked to be alternating between outright refusal to accept the veracity of Reynauld's claims and resigned acceptance. Reynauld did not blame him. The land was not nearly tainted enough to indicate a major infestation of the restless dead. Yet the groups that they had destroyed were clearly harbingers of more foul creatures lurking below.

"You're sure?" Alexis asked him.

"I have never been more certain in my life," he responded, steel in his voice. "The creatures and their champion that we smote signify that there is powerful necromancy at work in your ancestral home."

"Yet necromancy alone would not have been enough to destroy the estate. If the dead had begun to rise, then the Order would have destroyed them. But here we are, in the ruins of my family's hopes, with the dead walking below our very feet."

The man had a point. The Order had kept a watchful eye for over two thousand years, ever since the great Shadow Wars of antiquity that nearly saw the destruction of humanity as a unified species. His predecessors would have been more than capable of stamping out a few hundred rotting corpses when their own numbers reached into the tens of thousands spread across the lands.

"You are suggesting that there are other forces at play here, then?" he asked cautiously. Did he know something Reynauld did not?

"I am not suggesting anything, for that would imply I knew something," Alexis said, clearly agitated by the line of thought. "Perhaps we will uncover more knowledge of the fall of my ancestors in future expeditions, but for now we must deal with these undead as we encounter them."

"Agreed, they will be our most pressing concern for the time being. It would also be wise, if I may so bold my Lord, to bring in others who could assist us in this task. Perhaps some of my brothers and sisters in the faith…?" he ventured.

"Perhaps," Alexis murmured, turning his gaze down upon the musty tome that lay open before him. "Though the Order often demands favors or gold in return for the service of its soldiers. Things which I am unable to freely give at the moment. We may need to look elsewhere for warriors."

"Elsewhere, my Lord?"

Alexis grunted. "Elsewhere." He did not choose to expand upon that line of thought.

The group shuffled awkwardly for a moment, unsure as to whether or not they had been dismissed or Alexis was merely lost in thought. Eventually the man looked up with glazed eyes, nodding at them in dismissal. One by one they filed out, Reynauld keeping his eyes upon the man until the others had left. Finally, he shuffled out, steel boots thudding against the wooden floor.

He needed to pray. If he knew nothing else in this Hamlet, he knew he needed to pray.


	5. Due to the Dead

_Is it true that after this life of ours we shall one day be awakened_

 _by a terrifying clamour of trumpets?_

 _Forgive me God, but I console myself_

 _that the beginning and resurrection of all of us dead_

 _will simply be announced by the crowing of the cock._

\- Vladimir Holan

 _Chapter 4: Due to the Dead_

It had never been this furious before. Not since before It and Its brethren had been sealed away so long ago, in a time so ancient that not even so much as a rumor of the name of the species that had locked It away far below the surface of the earth remained. These mortals, these pathetic pieces of flesh and bone that lived such ludicrously short lives, threatened to undo all of Its carefully laid plans with their bumbling. It had not plotted and planned for centuries since Its release for such an event to occur.

Everything had been proceeding so smoothly. It had been a simple matter to influence the minds of those who had built their pale imitations of glories long past above Its prison. Such events were helped along by the discovery of several tomes and artifacts that dated back prior to Its imprisonment, the unearthing of these also slowly guided by Its expansive and far-reaching malevolent will. The pawns It had selected were so simple, so corrupt, so used to slavish and hedonistic lifestyles that they never questioned exactly why they were tunneling deep into the earth. When they finally had begun to ask why, that petty emotion, seemingly unique to these over-evolved pink apes, known as pride took full control over their minds and disallowed any thoughts of stopping from occurring to them. By the time that they had reached Its ancient cell and opened the gates to hell, their life essences consumed to reignite the guttering spark of Its power, they had been nothing more than slaves to Its will.

With the opening of the great gate that had held back Its true powers, It had proceeded to alter them into bloated and twisted agents of corruption and terror, their frames oozing pustules of disease and bent in impossible angles. Others had the flesh sucked off their skeletal frames, twisted parodies of their dead, and were imbued with incredible vigor and fortitude. Regardless of the shapes of their new bodies, however, they were bound irrevocably to It.

These creatures had been Its physical manifestations as they had proceeded to scour all but the most stubborn inhabitants from the petty lordship they had once called home. Those few who had remained had been slowly, but surely, consumed to sustain It over the long years, with the most promising among them taken to become scions of Its unfathomable will. So was Its rule over these lands secured.

The man who had brought them all before It, however, received true ascension as his reward, even if his actions had been naught more than a puppet reacting to having its strings pulled. He had been gifted with the blessings that had once been gifted to the soldiers in Its innumerable armies that had fought Its timeless foes in countless battles eons ago. Immortality had been his reward, eternal agony had been his curse.

It had deemed this a fitting sentence for the one who had propagated Its caging, no matter how unwittingly, before unleashing It once again upon the world.

Now the bastard descendant of the man who had set It free walked the lands of his predecessor, his workers delved deep into Its corrupted domain, and his band of warriors had destroyed a number of Its slaves, including a Blessed One. Small tidings, happenings that would normally be below a being such as It, such things were the scrambling to and fro of lesser creatures unfit to even so much as acknowledge Its existence. But still…

It was no fool, for no being of Its terrible majesty and power could ever be such. It knew that if It could not utterly destroy this man, leaving naught but terrified whispers to escape back to the so-called civilized lands, then any hope of It or Its fellow beings escaping would be crushed. It had attempted to escape two millennia ago, when Its worship had been cleverly disguised in plain sight amongst the mortal realms. Yet those plans had eventually proven useless, Its mortal armies shattered by their many foes, with the resulting watchfulness that had settled over the world preventing any repeats of those events that had almost seen it unchained well in advance of even Its wildest hopes. Alas that all such religions had been outlawed, leaving only the so-called One Faith. Those driven by the need to worship any beings greater than themselves were so easily manipulated.

So It had plotted and skulked in the dark, awaiting the day that Its freedom was gained silently in the shadows beneath the earth. That day had come and gone, yet the day of Its unveiling was not yet nigh. It needed more time, It need more slaves, before It was truly ready to once more unleash Its power across this world once more, to transform it into the hellscape it had once been, when It and Its fellows had molded and broken the world according to their desires.

One of Its innumerable tentacles, attached to the protean body that comprised Its current mortal shell, twitched, dispatching another group of mindless ones towards the tremors that were associated with the ongoing excavations. It would not do to work Itself up like this. While unfortunate, these interlopers were ultimately a minor problem. All It had to do was lure out the few warriors actually capable of defying Its slaves before crushing them beneath the unstoppable forces of entropy personified.

Its time neared with every passing day. Soon, all memory of these fools would be forgotten, drowned beneath a tide of blood and twisted magics.

A crazed chuckle that sounded more like the foundations of the world being shattered into a thousand pieces echoed throughout Its domain.

Soon.

* * *

Reynauld shifted minutely as he kneeled before the ruined altar that graced the rundown abbey. Rich tapestries that had once adorned walls composed of cypress wood were now little more than tattered pieces of cloth that hung helter-skelter from the ceiling, their colors faded. The hallowed gold that had been blessed by the Holy Ecclesiastics of the Order and laid out across the floor in such a way that, if one were to look down upon it from the rafters, it would have resembled the seven symbols of piety, had long since been stolen by looters and the desperate. Here and there lay the ruined corpses of pews that had undoubtedly once been filled to the brim by the faithful, long ago.

How different this building was from the opulent and majestic cathedrals that dotted the Holy City! No towering spires graced its roof, peaks grasping towards the heavens as if they could take hold of the hands of the gods and bring them down to the level of mortals. No grotesque gargoyles stared out from shadowed nooks, their malformed eyes passing judgment upon those who harbored hidden sins. No elegant masterworks of stained glass formed the windows, catching and twisting the morning light into a kaleidoscope of colors that reflected upon floors of polished marble. Here there was only reminders of past glories and current unbelief.

Yet Reynauld felt more in tune with the gods here than he ever had before. Perhaps the simplicity was in and of itself something sacred, a stripping away of the false airs that men liked to put on, and a return to the fundamentals that had inspired him to join the Order oh so long ago. Whatever was the cause, he was grateful for it. He needed the gods guidance now.

He had not let the others see it, nor had he allowed himself to feel it, but facing the blasphemous dead in battle once more had shaken him. Not nearly as badly as the experience had affected Dismas when the first walking corpse had rounded the corner, but to be taken back in any form could be potentially lethal in a battlefield. It was inexcusable to allow past memories to affect him as much as they had, thus his current penance.

A series of footsteps pattered behind him, marking the passage of the doddering old man in ragged priestly vestments who valiantly strove to maintain what he could of the abbey. Sadly, such upkeep was limited to lighting what few candles remained and fighting an uphill battle against the sheer amount of cobwebs that infested the building. Reynauld said a quick prayer for him. Such devotion would surely be rewarded by the gods after the man passed on to the afterlife. It was an injustice that the man's piousness was not acknowledged in life, however.

Reynauld felt his hands tightening into fists as his thoughts slowly drifted back to the last time had been in a situation like this. Had it truly been nearly half a score long years ago since he had first done battle with the walking dead? Had it been that long since he had watched many of those he had considered his brothers fall before unholy blades, only to be forced to grant them redemption through death when foul magics raised their forms to do battle once more on the side of the Great Desecrator and his many underlings?

"Never again," he swore softly, his voice low and full of determination, "Never again will I allow those who fight by my side be forced into such a fate. Never again will I stand powerless to deny the defiler, or be helpless in the face of the fiend. This I vow."

How many times had he uttered those words since the Order had granted him leave to seek his penance? How many times had he failed to uphold them?

Too many.

"Never again," he repeated, whispering. Not even men such as Dismas deserved to be made into hideous puppets within their own flesh, fully aware of what their forms did, yet powerless to do anything to stop it. No one deserved such an end.

From outside the abbey, a faint mad cackling drifted along the stagnant, humid air that hung heavily over the Hamlet, the noise poking and prodding its way through the myriad of holes and cracks in the ancient walls.

"Never again."

* * *

Jameson wiped the sweat off of his brow absentmindedly, drawing the back of his arm across it as he contemplated the fist-sized hole that seemed to stare back at him mockingly. Their blasted tools were no good against whatever type of stone this was. He had already broken the head off one pick already today, to say nothing about the days that had passed since they had started. An entire morning's worth of labor for one small hole in a mountain of rubble. Jameson had no clue as to why he and his fellows were digging day in and day out down here, out in the middle of nowhere with the nearest decent bar well over a hundred miles away. What he did know, however, was that they certainly were not being paid anywhere near enough for this type of work.

He let out a loud grunt as he hefted the shovel in his hands. At the end of the day, he supposed, as long as he was paid something he would not care very much at all what some eccentric noble was trying to dig up. Hell's four layers, the man could be trying to unearth something that would create a realm that rivaled that necromancer's kingdom way down south, all that he asked was that he be given the chance to take his coin and live a nice quiet life in a village whose name the rest of the world could not be bothered to try remembering.

As he brought down the shovel into the hole, trying to loosen some of the shattered stone that was wedged together, a cry from one of the other groups of workers that were attempting to open up one of the other passageways followed by a loud rumbling that shook the earth beneath him drew his attention. Exhaling loudly, he let go of the shovel as he turned around, waving the men he oversaw towards him. He hoped it the noise had simply been the sound of a hallway successfully cleared, and not another work group buried under their own exertions. He had long since become tired of having to dig battered and broken bodies out from under hundreds of pounds of stone.

He let another exhale as memories of friends reduced to stains upon the stone flashed through his mind. Life was cheap down here.

"Let's go," he grunted to his fellows. Nods answered his monosyllabic order, some more enthusiastic than others. An opened tunnel could mean a chance to line their pockets with long-forgotten goods. Jameson himself remembered when they had found what must have once been a private storeroom not long after they had begun digging down here. The silver coins may have been tarnished and the gold pieces few and far in-between, but most of it had gone into their coin purses at the end of the day. A portion had been reserved for his lordship of course, to allay any suspicion of thievery, but the boys had ate and drank well that night. Jameson, for his part, had pocketed an impressively sized ruby. He figured he would have to marry some day after this job was over, if only to have his mother cease her nonstop yammering over his lack of wife, and a gemstone of that size would probably win over the fairest maiden.

The sight that greeted them as they caught up with the other group, however, put their previous finding to shame. By several magnitudes.

Bags of silver and gold, both coins and bars, sat piled in the corners of the room that had been brought to light. Several of them had burst, their contents spilling across the floor and glinting in the torchlight. A few candlesticks were scattered about the room, most of them upright with a few fallen to the ground, but all of them were solid gold and studded with precious gems. But the one thing that drew all of their attentions was the suit of armor that adorned a stand against the far wall.

It was simultaneously regal and highly intimidating, as if the individual who had commissioned it had desired himself to be as unapproachable to the masses as much as possible, while still appearing inspiring to them during the heat of battle or a victory parade. Angular armor pieces and a pair of unconnected and slanting eye slits combined to give the set a vaguely insectoid look, a look that had been undeniably fashioned on purpose to inspire fear. The set was colored white as snow, with golden trim to augment its majestic feel. It seemed to radiate an aura of authority mixed with fear, and many of the workers were viewing it with unrestrained nervousness, though greed was rapidly becoming the more prevalent gleam in their eyes.

Shouts of avarice and claims to various objects split the formerly still air as men rushed forward to fill their pockets to the brims and paw at less portable valuables. As for Jameson himself, he found that he was unable to take his eyes off of the suit of armor, and found that the longer he looked at it, the less he wanted to do so. He pushed past a pair of workers arguing over a bag of gold pieces and emeralds and skirted around a group comparing one candlestick with another, steadily advancing upon the armor stand. He ignored the spectacle of a worker caving in the skull of a man he had once called friend with a shovel as they fought over a pair of silver bars. By the time he had reached the suit, he found himself unconsciously reaching out towards it, not even aware of when he had begun lifting his hand.

His hand had just made contact with the suit when everything suddenly went to the four layers of Hell itself.

All of the torches that the workmen had carried into the chamber suddenly blew out in unison as an unholy chorus of unearthly screams and wails echoed throughout the passageway that they had entered from. Terror forcibly evicted the greed that had controlled the tongues of the workers up until moments ago, and one of them made the mistake of rushing out of the room in an attempt to escape his fate.

It was when his headless corpse was flung back into the room a few moments later, quickly followed by his head, that true panic became intimately familiar to the workmen.

Even with men screaming in fear and sobbing all around him, Jameson kept his hand on the armor, staring up into the eye slits that glared back into his soul. He ignored men dashing around, desperately attempting to relight torches and form some sort of defense against the doom that had found them all. He ignored the curses directed towards the noble who had brought them to this end that were twined with pleas to the gods for salvation. Deep down, Jameson knew that this was not the end, but only the beginning of a new life. All he had to do was prove himself worthy of it where all of his fellows had failed.

His eyes trailed downwards until they fell upon a discarded pickaxe. Somewhere deep inside the recesses of his mind, a tiny fragment of himself remained lucid, pleading to the rest of him to not do this, to instead go and fight the monsters in the dark, rather than doing what he was about to do. The rest of him squashed these thoughts ruthlessly before picking up the tool and turning to face the men he had once called his friends.

Once he had simply wished to work, the creature formerly known as Jameson mused while he smashed the sharpened edge of his pickaxe into the spine of an unsuspecting worker. Now he had been enlightened. He had no need for such trivial matters. He had been called to serve by a being far more powerful than the gods themselves.

And serve he would.

* * *

Figures moved in the darkness, their true forms obscured to these pathetic fleshlings who dared oppose their might, their righteousness. But to his blessed eyes, he could see each of them as if daylight had dared to intrude into these hallowed depths, their twisted features defined with almost painful clarity.

His rapier, wielded with supernatural skill and speed, flashed out, nearly decapitating a worker in a single blow. These were the beings that threatened his master's grand design? Pathetic. Just like the Flayed One had been considering how he had been defeated by them. But then, he had always known that the Flayed One had been nothing more than an overly enthusiastic bootlicker that had not deserved his position, had not earned holy transfiguration.

Not that he had objected, of course. One does not tell a god that it is wrong in its decisions. Not if one enjoys living. And are gods not entitled to a mistake every now and then, given how much else they are responsible for?

Still, he thought as he drew back from the fray, letting his minions finish off the score of fleshlings that remained, one mistake does not mean that said gods were unworthy of worship, it simply meant that servants like him were required to clean up after the mistake.

Plus, the felling of the Flayed One had gifted his master with a wonderful opportunity. With the emboldening of the fleshling diggers and further excavations, symbols and artifacts of dark powers were being brought back into the open, allowing It to exercise Its power more freely. Thus the reason why he was here.

If he had still possessed lips and a tongue, he would have been running the latter over the former at the thought of the master's plan here. The creation of a Marked One! He had heard rumors of the powers of such beings in his former life: warriors encased in suits of unholy power that rendered them near unstoppable while they sundered armies with every sweep of their blade. They had been the champions of the Elder Beings in the days before time had existed. Sadly, while the means to create such beings were not lost, the ability to do so was still greatly hindered while It was still trapped beneath the earth, and none now existed.

Until now. Now he was to be witness to one It had chosen to spearhead the assault against the fleshlings when the time came to strike. It had truly granted him a great honor.

A jagged cry of pain slowly wormed its way through his trail of thought, bringing him back to the present. The last worker to oppose them had been fallen, his head burst open with a bloody pickaxe. Standing triumphant over the body was the one chosen to be Marked.

He hummed in minor disappointment. The specimen was not bad in terms of physicality, and he could feel Its touch upon him, so powerful were the blessings that he was surprised he did not sense them earlier. Perhaps he had worked himself up into expecting too much. After all, if the rumors to be believed, the suits of Marked Ones were practically sentient themselves, and did much to enhance a Marked's attributes.

Yes, he thought as a rictus grin erupted across his face, yes he truly had been given a gift to meet the newest champion of That-Which-Rules-Below.

* * *

The creature once known to the world as Jameson knew, instinctively, what was desired of him. Turning back to the suit of armor that had been his damnation, he dropped the pickaxe and made his way over to it.

Piece by piece the set of armor was lifted off the stand and placed upon his body by a pair of attendants that had materialized beside him when he had stopped before it. Piece by piece he could feel another conscience weighing heavily on his own, merging with and devouring his old personality bit by bit. The tiny voice that pounded and screamed against the walls in his mind became quieter and quieter with every passing moment, until it was so muffled as to be practically nonexistent.

As the last piece, the helmet, was placed upon his head, he could feel dark powers course through his body, fusing the armor with his flesh. They were one now.

They turned about to face the twisted shells that faced them, unsurprised to see the few that had retained some semblance of sanity bowing before them. Such respect was their due, and they would have destroyed them with their bare hands if they had dared to do otherwise.

As the corpses of Jameson's former fellows twitched and began to push themselves off the ground, the bodies wreathed in a pale light that illuminated the room, they silently took in the sight, impassive before a sight that would have driven fleshlings mad with grief and rage. As the transformation completed, they silently raised a fist, the bowing forms straightening back up and mimicking the gesture. Such would be the fate of all those who opposed the Elder Beings.

In the darkest corner of their combined souls, the mad laughter of chaos personified echoed unendingly.


	6. Vendettas and Expeditions

_death can get you any time  
death can get you in your sleep  
death can get you in your wake  
death can get your friend  
death can kill your soul mate then come and get you  
death is easy to get  
death by a gun  
death by a knife  
death by in a gallow  
death by the gilliteens  
death by hands  
death by accident  
death by shock  
an exploding heart in your body _

\- Jacob monkey

 _Chapter 5: Vendettas and Expeditions_

Dismas grimaced as he slammed the mug down against the wooden bar counter, bringing up his unoccupied hand up to rub his jawline tenderly as did so. It had been three days since they had ventured far beneath the earth, where that bastard Reynauld had almost ended up dislocating it with that blow of his, and a huge, ugly purplish and yellow bruise had sprung up to occupy the affected part of his face, a public reminder of his humiliation.

If there was one thing he hated more than anything else, it was humiliation. Dismas has killed men for much less offensive acts. One could steal from him, injure him, lie to him, and he would just laugh it all off. After all, he did such things on a daily basis, so what grounds did he have to complain? But humiliation? That was more than just one step too far. That was jumping over a line, boasting about doing so, then jumping over several more lines.

He had learned long ago that it was better to get even rather than get mad, but in this case, he was more than content to be both. He was also content to get more than simply even.

Yet the will of Alexis was in full effect here, so he had stayed his vengeance, resorting to booze to try and keep himself occupied and out of sight of Reynauld. All the alcohol had done so far though was simply give him an even bigger throbbing headache than the one that had already been pounding on his skull as if it were an oversized drum. Hell's sake, it felt like his eyes were about to burst out of their sockets by this point. Maybe they should, it might help with the pain.

He would have tried his hand at swindling the locals, but they seemed to be unnaturally savvy in regards to such moves. Probably because cheating was the only interesting thing to happen in card games, and card games were one of the few interesting things to happen around here. He had been caught and nearly tossed out of the tavern after a couple of games, with only his status as one of Alexis' underlings saving him from having to camp out in the mud underneath some tree.

"Fuckin' hell," he muttered beneath his breath, glancing around the bar as he did. "Gonna go fuckin' insane right quick at this rate."

He was not ready to go back down into the dark. In fact, he would be quite happy if he never had to go down there again. Those things down there were not natural, and he wanted no part of anything that had to do with them. But by the gods he needed to do _something._ Almost anything at this point.

So it was when the door to the tavern was practically blown off of its hinges an hour later by a figure dressed in mail armor, all he did was grin at the intruder.

Finally.

* * *

Across the town, in a two-story house that had seen far better days, Alexis had his head buried in a large pile of musty lists and scattered logs. The situation they painted was not pretty.

Only a few days ago he would have scoffed at the reports that had reached his ears. The supply trains that he had so carefully negotiated and planned out prior to his departure for the Hamlet were either disappearing outright on their way or arriving with only a meager amount of the promised goods. Before, he would have been outraged. He would stomped up and down the length and breadth of his office, giving voice to his anger and rage at the quartermasters who were taking his coin and running off with it. He would have departed the Hamlet personally, prior personal troubles on the road be damned, and sorted the situation out with those corrupt swindlers himself, either by sword or by persuasion. Most likely with his blade.

Now he knew differently. While some of his current problems undoubtedly did stem from corrupt suppliers thinking they were cunning enough to steal from someone like him, he knew that those things that Reynauld and Dismas had described to him were the real reason behind his predicament.

Of course, knowing one's enemy did not equal having all of one's problems solved instantly. He needed capable individuals to defend the supplies, but all he had were Reynauld and Dismas, in addition to a few guards. If he became really desperate he could also throw in Montbrai and Vesli, though their talents lay elsewhere. Yet if he shifted too many soldiers into guard duty for the supply caravans, he ran the risk of leaving the excavation teams exposed. Already he had received reports detailing the loss of over twenty men beneath the cold earth. Both times the guards assigned to the diggers had been forced to fend off an undead excursion somewhere else within the tunnels.

Alexis slammed his fist on his desk, sending the stacks of papers and a thin layer of dust into the air. What in the four layers of Hell was he supposed to do? If he lost too many of the diggers then any source of income would inevitably dry up, and no money meant no chance of success at all. Yet he could not avoid this new threat either. Was he undone before he could reclaim the lost glory of his family that had been denied to him for far too long? Reynauld, as honorable and brave as he was, could not be everywhere, and the rest of his men were subpar commoners at best, drunken rogues at worst.

He straightened back up from his desk, breathing deeply as he did. Anger would solve nothing here. He needed to think through this rationally. He was not some thug who thought that physical violence was the answer to everything. The answer to this problem would present itself in time. He merely needed to be patient.

Perhaps the gods had been listening. A loud commotion erupted from the tavern, the noise reaching his office. He glanced out the large glass pane that overlooked the section of town in which all the hubbub was stirring. Initially he planned on ignoring it. After all, a tavern brawl was certainly nothing new around here, and when he saw the door go flying off of its hinges after Dismas was violently ejected out into the street, he turned to look back at the reports that were now strewn across his desk. Once again, nothing new. That scoundrel never seemed to learn from his constant mistakes.

It was the flash of metal following the fallen highwayman out that caught his eye. Perhaps…?

"This could be precisely what I need," he mused to no one in particular as he took in the sight that lay before his eyes. By then Dismas had hauled himself up and yanked a dagger out from beneath his coat. The metalclad stranger that had tossed him outside had responded by removing an axe from a belt loop with his right hand and unwinding a meat hook from his left wrist.

"No need to jump to conclusions though, of course," Alexis said to himself, his mind racing through a number of possibilities. He settled back down into his chair as he watched the two combatants begin to circle each other. As Dismas feinted with his dagger before viciously slugging the masked figure in the chest, only to be forced to rapidly backpedal lest he be split open by the axe, a tiny smile danced across Alexis' face.

"Yes, this may be just what I need."

* * *

Dismas spat a globule of blood into the mud hole that passed itself off as a street, cursing his lack of real weaponry as he did. Nothing but his wits and his dagger stood between his life and this stranger's weapons. If he had his pistols on him, this whole charade would have been over before it had even started. Too bad the tavernkeep was more than a little nervous about heavily armed and drunk patrons and had forbidden him from carrying around his guns inside.

Oh well, no sense crying over spilled booze he supposed. He could handle this guy with one hand behind his back. As if in response, his left hand pulsed in pain once again, causing him to wince. He might just have to. Punching a vest of chainmail had not been one of his brighter ideas. Still, it had bought him a moment to breathe, if nothing else.

There was something oddly familiar about the axe wielder that danced just out of reach of his memory. Someone he had cheated before maybe?

"You know," the stranger said, "the bounty on you is higher alive. But after all you've put me through over the years, I think I can settle for a lower payout."

The voice settled the matter in an instant. "Grancourt?" Dismas asked in astonishment. "The hell are you doin' way out here?"

"Always with the questions that have obvious answers," Grancourt sneered at him. "What do you think I'm doing out here? Cataloguing the plant life? I'm here for the bounty on your head, idiot. Why else would I have come out into the ass end of nowhere?"

"Fuck you," Dismas shot back, "shouldn't you be dead or somethin'? I seem to recall you catching the business end of that trap I set up in those mines a couple months back."

He knew he had touched a nerve with that one when Grancourt stiffened up and curled his fists. Good, this asshole was a real piece of work. Plus that trap had been one of his finest works yet.

"You're gonna pay for that day," the other man promised darkly. "You're gonna pay for all the pain I suffered dragging myself out of there, along with the finger I lost 'cause of you."

Dismas only grinned in response. "Then you shoulda stopped hunting me five years ago."

The meat hook whizzed off of Grancourt's arm and shot towards him, the bounty hunter clearly done talking. He rolled to the right in response, knowing full well that if it were to connect Grancourt would reel him in and split him in half in a heartbeat.

Grancourt yanked the hook back deftly when he realized all that he was going to end up hooking was air. Axe in hand, he charged Dismas and swung twice, forcing the highwayman away from the vicious strikes. In response, Dismas lashed out with his dagger, nearly gutting his opponent while he recovered.

"I've been waiting for this Dismas!" Grancourt shouted as he kicked the rogue in the groin, sending Dismas rolling away and moaning in pain. "Five fucking years and across half the damn continent!" He lashed out with the hook again, only barely missing as Dismas rolled once more. The bounty hunter lashed out in a series of kicks, punctuating every word with a blow, "I'm gonna cut your legs off first just so you realize you'll never. Escape. AGAIN!"

Dismas groaned as he rolled yet again before pushing his way upwards off the ground, his body aching all over. This was not good. Grancourt was murdering him like this. He had to start turning this around before his head was what was rolling across the ground instead of him.

Grancourt stormed up to him, clearly thinking his foe was on the ropes. Dismas lashed out with his foot, scooping the man's legs out from under him in return. Acting quickly, he dove on top of the hunter and knocked his axe away with his left hand before pinning the hook arm down with his right. Capitalizing upon the opportunity he proceeded to drive his elbow into Grancourt's ribcage, taking pleasure in the faint cracking noises that resulted.

His opponent screamed in pain and rage before grabbing Dismas' arm with his free hand and throwing him to the side. Dismas rolled with the impact and rushed Grancourt as he stumbled up, clutching his chest as he did, slashing the dagger across his face as he did. Crimson blood erupted from Grancourt's face like a blooming flower while Dismas followed up with a kick that sent the man tumbling backwards and downwards.

Dismas was poised above the bounty hunter, ready to plunge the dagger downwards into Grancourt's heart when he was rudely interrupted.

"What the everlasting hell is going on out here?!" Alexis roared from behind him, sprinting towards the fight with a pair of guards lugging halberds trailing behind him.

"Back off pretty boy," Dismas sneered as he hawked a mixture of spittle and blood towards Alexis. "My dagger and this prick are about to have a reunion, and it's been a long time comin'."

"Dismas! Stand down or I'll have my guards make you stand down!" Alexis bellowed, face reddening in rage. Said guards lowered their weapons into a ready state in response to Dismas' defiance.

Dismas glared backwards at the upstart for a long minute, ignoring the squirming Grancourt trying to free himself below him. With an angry grunt, he finally obliged and stood up, Grancourt staggering upwards after him.

"You two," Alexis said as he gestured towards the guards then towards Grancourt, "show him to my office."

"Yes lord," the pair responded as they saluted smartly, before waving the bounty hunter past them.

Grancourt glowered at them before his expression shifted to Dismas, where the look adopted a more hateful edge. "Don't think we're finished," he snarled out before moving past, shouldering the highwayman roughly as he did.

"Wouldn't dream of it," Dismas shot back.

"Dismas, you can go back to drinking yourself unconscious or whatever it is you do in your free time," Alexis condescendingly remarked as the upstart made to follow after his guards and Grancourt. "I may have something for you later though, so try not to embarrass yourself too badly."

Then, with the sound of boots slapping against the ever-present mud that made up the streets in the Hamlet growing more and more dim by the moment, Dismas found himself alone once more.

"Fuck that prick," Dismas growled to no one in particular. "Hope he trips over them fancy boots and breaks his neck or somethin' while struttin' around like he owns this place."

With a sigh, he turned back towards the now–thoroughly ruined tavern, observing the busted and warped wooden door that lay toppled on the ground after he had been so rudely thrown through it. To him, the sight was a fitting summation for this entire little adventure he had been dragged on. He just had to hope that, unlike the tavern front and its insides, he did not end up completely broken before all of this was over. Something that was becoming more and more unlikely he was stuck out here.

"Those gods sure have a stupid sense of humor," he muttered as he trudged his way back inside to the sound of the angry yells emanating from the tavernkeep.

* * *

Alexis eased himself down into the lone chair in his office, glancing at the tense figure standing across the oak wood desk from him. He had to play this just right, or this golden opportunity would disappear faster than the slightest hint of sunlight in the Hamlet. Gods knew how much he needed more capable people around here, and this particular individual could be the answer to more than one problem.

"Perhaps you could introduce yourself, considering how keen you seemed to be on making an entrance in my town," he suggested drily after a minute of uncomfortable silence had passed between the two.

It wasn't his town. Not yet anyways, at least. However, considering how much of a weak-willed coward the mayor was, establishing himself as the real power in this miserable Hamlet would hardly be a challenge for someone like him. Plus, it never hurt to make an impression on this dirty, coin grubbing bloodhound.

The other man grunted, then assented. "Name's Grancourt. I'm a bounty hunter. Been hunting that man of yours for five years now, off and on. Slippery bastard, he is."

Alexis arched his eyebrow at that information. "Five years?" he asked incredulously. "An awful long time for one target don't you think?"

"Like I said, slippery. Real slippery," Grancourt said, bristling at the unspoken comment.

Alexis waved his hand in a soothing motion. Working the bounty hunter up was not the best of ideas. "Relax, I hardly meant anything by that," he soothingly placated the now-twitching man. "It's just that, five years is an awful long time to spend in pursuit of one man, don't you think?"

Grancourt remained silent for a few seconds, as if searching for any hidden insult in those words. Seemingly finding none, he unballed his fists and let his axe slide back into its belt loop.

"At first, it was seemed like something simple," he admitted slowly, as if this was the last thing he wanted to talk about. "Find a local hitman, bring him into the noble who posted the bounty, get paid, walk away. Spend the money at a tavern drinking and wenching, then go out and find another job."

"But?" Alexis pressed. Any information he could get on Dismas was potentially blackmail material. He could ill afford to let something like that be passed up.

"He escaped," Grancourt said plainly, "found out I was comin' for him somehow and left town. That was five years ago, now I'm here."

Alexis hmm'd in contemplation, before asking, "And just what has our mutual acquaintance done to have a bounty on his head in the first place?"

"More like what hasn't he done," Grancourt said before tilting his head backwards slightly, as if he thought it would help his memory. "Let's see, he's wanted for murder, arson, thieving, gang warfare in the streets, and seducing a noble's daughter." Almost as an afterthought, he added, "Probably that last one was the real reason for the bounty though."

"I…see," Alexis said hesitantly. That was _quite_ the record for one man. "Regardless, I am afraid I have become somewhat sidetracked. I did not request your presence to discuss a man such as Dismas."

"Oh?"

If the sudden glint in Grancourt's eyes were any indication, the man had probably already worked out what Alexis was about to propose. Crafty. This man would bear watching.

"I find myself shorthanded when it comes to competent helpers out here," Alexis confessed. "But your level of dedication, as evidenced by your tale, is astounding. I would like to formally request your aid in my endeavor to reclaim the lands of my ancestors."

Grancourt put on a performance of thinking the offer over. He hemmed and hawed before quieting down for a few minutes, staring at Alexis the entire time. Finally, he asked with an avaricious tone, "What's in this for me then?"

"Oh, you will be paid, quite handsomely I assure you, if that is what you are worried about," Alexis reassured the man.

"Coin is nice and all," Grancourt said as he waved dismissively, "but I'm afraid I'm more than well set back in the civilized lands. I'm afraid I must decline."

Two could more than play this game. "Well then, I am afraid that if that is your decision then I must bid you take your leave. However, there is one slight matter I find troubling me."

"And what might that be, if you don't mind me askin'?"

"Well, you see, when my expedition proves successful there may be a number of tasteless individuals around no longer under my protection. A shame, really, that they will be free to roam as they please, no one to keep them leashed. However, should you decide to stay…," Alexis trailed off suggestively.

Grancourt leaned forward, a huge smile threatening to split his face in half. "Good ser, I believe you have yourself a deal."

Alexis smiled back. "I'm sure that you have conditions of your own of course."

"Just the one."

"Name it then."

"When this is all over, you hand Dismas over to me personally. Any others I don't care about, just him."

Alexis thought it over for a second, before stretching out his arm. As Grancourt grabbed and shook it, all he said was, "Deal."

* * *

To say that Reynauld was not happy right now would have been a massive understatement. While the grim-faced crusader was not one for a cheerful mood even on a good day, but now his disposition had transcended beyond simple anger. The gods would be furious at him for allowing this to come to pass.

"These rites and prayers are sacred, and not to be disturbed, no matter how urgent the matter may be," he said sternly, glaring down at the unfortunate boy who had had the misfortune of delivering Alexis' summons.

The young man, more a child really, became even paler at this dismissal, leading Reynauld to absentmindedly wonder just what Alexis did to him when he had refusal or failure to report back to his master.

"Please ser Reynauld, reconsider. Lord Alexis said this matter was of utmost urgency and that he required your expertise," the boy shakenly stammered out.

Reynauld exhaled explosively, trying to prevent himself from doing anything rash. He had sworn an oath to Alexis, but apparently the man had decided to interpret it in an exceedingly loose manner. He would have to have words with the man. No power temporal held sway over the deeds of the divine.

"Tell him I shall be there momentarily then," he conceded.

The messenger perked up considerably at his reluctant acceptance before scampering off down the abbey steps and across town towards Alexis' house. Sending a brief prayer to the gods to beg for forgiveness, he turned back into the rundown house of worship, once last thing that he needed to do.

"Sister Montbrai," he said as he found the silent figure he was searching for tending to the altar. She was a good soul, and he thanked the gods for the fortune they had granted him when they had sent the two of them out into this dark corner of the world. "Lord Alexis wishes to speak to me, most like to send me off again. Stay safe."

Montbrai nodded in response and turned back to the altar, leaving Reynauld to make his way through the gloom and muck towards Alexis' residence in silence.

Although it shamed him to admit it, he thought as he slogged his way through the omnipresent mud, even to himself, there were far too many times when he doubted what they were doing out here. If they could even succeed. If this expedition was worth all the effort at all. Would they all end up dead and forgotten, with no one to remember their names and faces? Their mighty deeds of valor unsung? Could he trust his fellows to stand by his side in the darkest hours?

He shook his head vigorously, drawing curious stares from passersby. No, he would not think of such things. It was foolish to contemplate them in the first place. Their cause was righteous and just, despite the state of the tools that the gods had chosen to wield. How could he fall into such poisonous thinking?

Shoving such thoughts out of his mind, he opened the door to Alexis' home and made his way to the office. Inside, he saw Dismas, who was clearly nursing a hangover while sporting several new injuries, and a medium height and stocky warrior. A quick examination of the newcomer's gear told him everything he needed to know about this particular individual's chosen profession. He shot a raised eyebrow at Alexis, silently asking for an explanation.

"No Reynauld, we are not ridding ourselves of Dismas just yet," Alexis chuckled at Reynauld's confused expression.

Dismas glowered in response while the bounty hunter joined in on the laughter. Bringing his amusement back under control, the other man nodded at Reynauld. "Name's Grancourt. Seems you've already figured out what I do."

Reynauld warily nodded back. Bounty hunters fell into a strange situation with the church. On the one hand, they were all scum who hunted down and sometimes killed their fellow man in the name of coin. On the other, the church often employed such types to hunt down particularly dangerous heretics. "Brother Reynauld," was what he settled upon as a greeting.

Alexis clapped his hands together, the sound dragging their attentions back to him. "Now that you are all acquainted with each other, let us begin," he started. "Gentlemen, we have a crisis on our hands."

Dismas scoffed lightly at that statement. Clearly he was opposed to the 'we' in that statement.

"Our supplies and new workers are not reaching us," Alexis continued as he fired a scorching glare at Dismas, who stared back unfazed. "While we are able to send men back to the civilized lands, any incoming traffic is inevitably savaged or lost within the woods."

"Meaning?" Grancourt asked.

"Meaning I need you three to head back with the survivors of the last caravan and escort the next one back. Make sure it and our supplies make it to the Hamlet in one piece," Alexis explained. "Stop whatever it is that is launching these attacks. If the road is closed to us, then we will all die slow and painful deaths."

The trio glanced at each other, momentarily and hesitantly, then back towards Alexis. Reynauld nodded. "Consider it done then lord," he said confidently.

"Good. I'll have supplies drawn up for you three. This will be a longer expedition than your last one by a considerable amount, so prepare yourselves accordingly."

Grancourt took this moment to interrupt. "Pardon me if I sound like an ignorant jackass here," he said, "but why can we get out but not back in? Seems kinda contradictory to me. Wouldn't whatever it is that you all are worried about want more victims?"

Alexis sighed in response to the query. "Though I am fairly certain that all of this is just the work of an average necromantic cult, as I explained to you earlier, some things are simply not adding up correctly. So for now I'm not taking any chances with this situation. Perhaps they fear an influx of too many warriors capable of bringing them down. Or perhaps they want us to simply run, thus not having to expend too much effort on us, so they leave the option wide open." The lord shrugged simply at these guesses, uncertainty written on his face. "For now, we can only react to this threat."

Grancourt nodded, seemingly satisfied by the answer. Alexis looked around the room, before asking, "Any more questions?"

When none were forthcoming, he smiled. "Good, good. The caravan will be leaving later tonight, in a few hours. I suggest that all of you go ready yourselves now. Reynauld, once again you are in command of this. I will be sending two of my guards to accompany you, just in case."

Reynauld bowed slightly before clashing his fist on his breast in acknowledgement, before turning to follow the others out.

It was all he could do to continue suppressing his rising worries and doubts as he stepped outside into the quickly gathering darkness that was enveloping the Hamlet like a shroud.

They would not fail. He would see to it, no matter the cost.


	7. Death and Decay

_We have short time to stay, as you,  
We have as short a spring;  
As quick a growth to meet decay,  
As you, or anything.  
We die  
As your hours do, and dry  
Away,  
Like to the summer's rain;  
Or as the pearls of morning's dew,  
Ne'er to be found again. _

\- Robert Herrick

 _Chapter 6: Death and Decay_

"Well this has been nothin' but a gigantic waste of our time," Dismas complained bitterly behind him, voice barely audible over the creaking of the heavily laden wagons and the pounding of metalclad feet against aged cobblestone.

Reynauld could not help himself, letting out a long, exasperated sigh. While the rogue did have a point in that there had been no sign of whatever had the lord Alexis worried, that did not mean they were back at the Hamlet yet. To become lax in one's duties was an affront to the gods, who expected all of their servants to be steadfast and unwavering in everything that they undertook.

"If you are so insistent upon finding something to occupy your attention Dismas, then you will be the one taking first watch tonight. And if you continue to complain, I shall double the duration of first watch," he said placidly, confident and secure in the knowledge that Dismas would not dare challenge him. Especially not if such a challenge would lead to even more work.

Though he did not bother turning around to see it, he could feel the heat of the scoundrel's glare upon his back. Reynauld felt his lips tug upwards into a tiny smile, knowing that he had been correct in his assumption. Turning his attention away from the other man and back towards the road and the forest that surrounded it, he could not help but feel that tiny knot of dread, uncertainty, and even fear gnawing away at the root of his stomach flare up once more, threatening to unman him should he allow it to continue. Dismas, as insufferable as he was, had a point. For all the troubles that Alexis had described to them, they should have encountered something by now, and the deceptive calm was slowly driving him mad with anticipation.

They had successful escorted the survivors from the previous caravan back to the civilized lands and had met up with the next one just outside of the forest. Even now, halfway back to the Hamlet, they had still suffered no incidents. He knew that he should be praising the gods that they had granted them peace and success so far, but something was just too _wrong_ with this situation, and every step taken back towards the Hamlet only increased that feeling.

His companions, on the other hand, seemed to disagree given their actions. Dismas had long since given up watching for threats, while the bounty hunter was busy telling stories of his exploits to the pair of guards that Alexis had assigned to them. The two young men, more boys than men, really, were completely enraptured in return by the no doubt-embellished tales of derring-do and close calls. Their attentions were not focused on the cursing teamsters who struggled to keep their spooked animals from running back towards the civilized lands and away from the forest, nor did they pay any mind on the forest itself, which stretched its twisted and gnarled branches over their heads like talons pointed at their hearts. If these men had been fellow crusaders, then such laxity and sloth would have earned them all severe penance duties from a senior crusader, in addition to being placed at the front of the next assault.

Reynauld scanned the tree lines once more, futilely attempting to pierce the unnaturally thick fog that seemed to permeate every part of the forest except for the road. He thought he saw a few glimpses of movement here and there, but discerning which were simply foliage being blown about by the occasional gust of wind and which were unholy creatures preparing to assault them was impossible. The rapidly gathering darkness did him no favors either. Night came on swiftly here in the forest, and he figured that within a half an hour the only light too be found would be their campfires.

He subtly adjusted his pace, slowing down enough that Dismas quickly caught up with him. Ignoring the look that the rogue sent his way, Reynauld leaned over towards him and gave voice to the thought that was growing more and more concrete as time went on. "Whatever is out there will come tonight. I am sure of it," he spoke lowly. The last thing needed was the teamsters to panic and ruin any hope they had of defeating their foe by attempting to flee.

The last thing Dismas was, was professional, but he understood just when he needed to fall into line and obey to the exact letter if he wanted to continue breathing. "Why's that?" he muttered back, doing his best to look inconspicuous as he did. He too grasped that letting the others overhear would result in a catastrophe.

"Every caravan up until ours has been attacked before reaching even halfway to the Hamlet," Reynauld explained. "Most likely our foe is more wary about attacking a defended caravan, but it is also likely that he is simply waiting for us to reach the halfway point, to minimize any chance we might have of escape ."

"Givin' us just rope to hang ourselves then. Those things smart enough to do something like that? Seemed pretty simpleminded to me."

"The creatures themselves, no. But whoever commands them may be so."

Dismas muttered a few choice words. "Got a plan then to get us out of this?" he asked.

"Yes, just be prepared to fight for your life tonight."

"That's the only way I fight."

"I will prepare the teamsters, you alert our companions."

With a grunt, Dismas walked off towards Grancourt and the two guards at the head of the column. With any luck, Reynauld hoped, they would all come out of this alive.

But then, hope is such a fleeting thing.

* * *

If the forest had been capable of feeling emotions, it would have been annoyed. These interlopers continued in their attempts to defy it, no matter how many times it slaughtered them and used their corpses to nurture its growth.

It had spent most of the past few days simply content to watch some of these mortals plod their way back outside of it. It had decided that letting these creatures go was the easiest thing to do. After all, it had much better things to be doing, such as tending to its many vales and groves where incredibly toxic blooms flourished in a kaleidoscope of dizzying colors and extending its reach further and further into the so-called civilized lands. Besides, the mortals would fight back if it attacked them, and that risked damage to its precious plants. No, the forest had decided, it would not hinder their leaving.

Yet they had come back, with an even larger group this time. Had they not learned anything? That they were not wanted here? Clearly they had not, considering how they had made it almost halfway to that tumor in its heart, that festering wound that choked its growth.

No, it decided, it would need to send another message. A twitch of its vast conscience sent a group of its beloved children scurrying towards the interlopers. They would tend to this nuisance, and in doing so, would create more children to tend to its gardens.

It was ancient. It was nature. It was life itself. None could stand against it. These mortals simply had not realized that yet.

When they did realize, it would be as the earth beneath their feet flourished with their life energies.

* * *

Night had come, and Dismas was swiftly becoming more and more annoyed. Not that he thought that the crusader had been pulling his leg when he had delivered his warning. Reynauld was far too straight-laced for something even approaching a joke.

No, what annoyed him was the fact that while he knew the holy warrior had been telling the truth, there was still no sign of their enemies. He could practically feel unseen eyes settling upon him as he stood atop one of the wagons that had been circled for increased protection.

The caravan had stumbled across a clearing next to the road large enough to draw themselves into a defensible position while still having plenty of space between themselves and the tree line, just in time for Reynauld to call for a halt for the night. Inside the ring a few campfires flickered, intentionally kept low so as to interfere as little as possible with the night vision of the posted sentries. Most of the teamsters were asleep, catching what little shuteye they could before the storm broke. Those that stayed awake circled around their respective fires, blearily staring into the flames as if the lapping orange and red tongues that leapt upwards were speaking to them. A handful worked to reassure nervous oxen that constantly lowed and strained at their ropes, as if the animals were hoping to escape from the horrors that awaited them.

Dismas let out a light chuckle. At least some of them had some common sense. He only wished he had some himself right about now.

In response to his laughter, one of Alexis' guards, Hugonin if he remembered the lad's name correctly, directed an inquisitive noise his way.

"Nothin', nothin', just thinkin' s'all," he reassured the other man. He liked Hugonin. The kid did not give him grief over his past. He was more curious than anything, and had spent most of the trip pestering him endlessly for stories.

Hugonin did not respond, simply turning back to face the inky blackness that surrounded them all, satisfied with the explanation. Another thing he liked about the young man. Professional when he needed to be.

It was then when Grancourt, stationed on the other side of the circle, began hooping and hollering an alarm that split the still night air more effectively than any trumpet could ever hope to.

"Here we go again," Dismas grunted and grumbled, reaching for his pair of pistols from where they lay atop a discarded crate as he did. To his left, Hugonin shifted his spear off of his shoulder with his right hand while hefting his iron kite shield with his left. "You excited for this kid?" he asked while teamsters rushed to and fro behind them, grabbing whatever could be used as a weapon.

Hugonin merely shrugged. "Can't say I am. Suppose they decide they decide to bring out some real nasties?" he asked.

"Then you just stay behind me and watch how it's done," Dismas said reassuringly. Kid was nice, sure, but greener than spring grass. Watching his back was all he would trust him to do if anything with any real smarts decide to pop its ugly head up.

"Right. Maybe I'll jus..." Hugonin trailed off as the first few shapes began to emerge from the trees.

"Th' fuck?" Dismas croaked out in shock.

"I think I'll take you up on that offer," Hugonin said weakly.

Whatever it was that had come lurching out from the shadows was most certainly not one of the walking dead, though it bore some similarities to their previously encountered foes, mostly in the sense that there was a vague humanoid figure that could be identified. Its head, however, looked more like a mushroom than anything else, while gaping holes dotted its torso and legs. Outstretched arms ended in jagged protrusions that looked like they could tear through armor with only minor resistance.

Worst of all though, to Dismas, was the noises. Faintly human-like groans and whimpers emanated from somewhere in their bodies, sounding like someone who had been on the receiving end of a torture rack for a couple of hours. Nothing so clearly inhuman should be capable of sounding so pathetically human in his opinion.

"Th' fuck?" Dismas repeated as he watched the creatures shamble closer to the upturned wagon circle. "Alexis didn't mention none of this crap!"

Without waiting for a response to his proclamation, he brought his pistol to bear on the closest monstrosity. A thundering crack split the air, overpowering the sounds of frightened men and panicking beasts of burden, heralding the launch of a lead ball. Said ball flew straight and true and buried itself within the mushroom-like head of one of the shamblers, which proceeded to burst apart in an almighty spray of liquids. Liquids that were mostly clear in terms of color.

"There was no blood..." Hugonin stammered out, having intently watched the entire spectacle. "What…what the hell?"

There was a moment of poignant silence as everyone, monsters included, seemed to stop and process the death. Suddenly, the groans and whines shifted and became screeches of death, bellowing roars of anger. Within the span of a lone heartbeat and in unison, the man-like fungi started to sprint towards the defenders, seemingly hell-bent on avenging their fallen comrade.

"Ah hells," Dismas groaned as he frantically reloaded.

"Now you've done it old man!" Hugonin shouted as he lowered his spear's tip at the onrushing horde. "We're carrionmeat now thanks to you!"

"My fault? How is this-" Dismas found himself unable to finish, being rudely interrupted by one of the mushroom men jumping atop his wagon in one smooth leap and bellowing in his face. A blast from the just-reloaded pistol hit the thing in the shoulder and sent it spinning away and over the edge. Before he could celebrate, another took its place.

This was bad, so very bad. He had seen a dozen of the creatures on his side alone before the fighting had begun, and he had no idea how many the others were faring on the far side. That was before adding in the possibility of more of these freaks on the way. For one brief second, as he brought his dagger in a downward slash across the creature's stomach, he wished he was fighting something as simple as the undead again.

Another two slashes caught the thing unawares as it stumbled backward from the blow to its chest, taking off its left limb. He took the opportunity to look behind him, where Hugonin had started screaming.

"They won't die!" the man gibbered in stark terror as he jabbed his spear into a monstrosity's thigh over and over, the wounds healing up almost as soon as Hugonin removed his weapon for another plunge. "THEY WON'T DIE!"

An angry growl dragged his attention back towards the beast he had been fighting, just in time to see the damn creature regrow its severed limb before his very eyes before it lunged for him. He ducked beneath the strike, sending the creature snarling into the teamsters below. The frightened civilians panicked before a pair of them laid into the monster with a pair of hatchets, bursting open its head in the process and killing it.

"Aim for the head!" he shouted at Hugonin, hoping the kid heard him. The unabated screaming told him that he was still alive, at the very least.

With any luck, the others were as well.

* * *

"I'm getting real sick and tired of these assholes already," growled the bounty hunter from behind him.

Reynauld barely had time to blink as a meat hook was sent sailing past the side of his head, where it proceeded to embed itself in the leg of one of the fungal monstrosities. One quick tug sent it sprawling, whereupon he proceeded to bring his claymore down and split it in half from crown to hip. He had just enough time to pull out the massive sword before a blow from his side sent him flying down into the teamsters below.

With a shake of his head, he pushed himself off the muddy ground and onto his feet before a sharp pain ripped through his battered side. A look downwards revealed that the swipe had torn open his breastplate and opened up a trio of slash marks. Hopefully they merely looked deeper than they actually were.

An echoing snarl, barely audible over the combat and fear, drew his attention back upwards and over the barricades in time to see another group of monsters emerging from the tree line. Unlike the creatures already attacking them, these ones waddled along close to the ground on four bent legs and had no arms that he could see.

"More foes approach!" he roared, though he doubted anyone heard him over all of the general clamor and battle cries that rang out from every direction.

Turning away from the new creatures and back towards the teamsters, he completed the motion just in time to see a hail of noxious smelling projectiles come arcing down into their midst. Many immediately bent over gagging and retching, their bodies making futile attempts to purge the poison that they had no doubt just inhaled. Whipping around, he saw the squat monsters fire off another wave of the projectiles from what had to be from inside their bodies. Craning his neck to follow them, he noticed that there were fewer this time, and though he could only dimly make out their shapes, they seemed to be smaller as well.

The mystery of these new missiles solved itself when they rained down upon the defenders, a pair of them hitting and sticking to a now-panicking teamster. A pair of monstrosities leapt roaring over the wagons and barreled down upon the stuck teamster, tearing him to pieces when they reached him. Their less-than-ideal new location, however, left them surrounded by a large crowd of angry men determined to work out their fear and avenge their fallen friend. The pair were torn apart in a shower of disgusting ichor within seconds after coming under assault by a dozen and a half makeshift weapons. This did not bode well at all. A few more concentrated attacks like that, and all of the individuals capable of actually using their weapons would be concentrated upon and killed, leaving the rest defenseless.

Someone had to do something. With a pained and resigned sigh that echoed throughout his helmet, he knew that someone was most likely himself. Glancing around, he found the one soul he could relatively trust at the moment.

"Dismas!" he shouted to the rogue as he jumped up atop a wagon beside the man, sword flashing as it cut one of the fungus men in twain. "Are you still capable of fighting?" he asked when he saw the blood flowing freely down the man's chest.

"I'll survive," came the answering yell, barely heard over one of Dismas' pistols discharging directly into the chest of a thundering monstrosity. A quick sideways slash followed, relieving the beast of its arms, whereupon Dismas finished it off with a jab to the bloated sac that made up its head.

"We'll not survive this much longer," Reynauld said as the pair gasped for whatever air they could. Down below one of the creatures smashed its way through one of the wagons, sending splinters of wood flying. It wasted no time in launching itself at the remaining teamsters, who now numbered a mere twenty, down from the original mass of eight and thirty. The workers managed to dispatch it, but not before another three of them lay torn to pieces on the earth.

"Those creatures outside are disrupting our defense, and seem to be directing the rest," he explained. "I shall deal with them, but I require you to deal with the remaining creatures."

"I can do that, sure" Dismas said as he applied a bandage to his chest wound, grunting in pain as he began to exerted pressure on the gash. "Just don't take too long, or you'll be running off to his precious lordship all by yourself."

"Rest assured, I will not be long."

* * *

"'Rest assured,' he said, 'I won't be long,' he said. Where the hell is he already, that useless fuck?!" Dismas shouted as he dodged frantically beneath a wild swipe directed his way by one of the walking man-like mushrooms.

In the back of his mind, some tiny piece remained conscious of the normal passage of time. It attempted to remind him that it had only been a few minutes since the crusader had set off to deal with the monsters that were bombarding them from afar. It also attempted to point out the fact that there had been a good half a dozen of the things out there, and that killing them would require some time, especially if they required as much effort as their upright kin. The rest of his mind, firmly controlled by his self-preservation instinct, promptly told said tiny piece exactly where and how deeply it could stick its rationality.

"What's the matter Dismas?" Grancourt puffed out exhaustedly next to him, gutting one of the beasts with his meat hook before finishing it with a horizontal swipe courtesy of his axe. "Not used to actual fighting? More used to just running all the time?" the bounty hunter jeered. "Makes for a nice change of pace, dunnit?"

"Why you aren't dead yet, I'll never understand," Dismas snarled as he sheared off a hand from the creature that had lashed at him. "Woulda thought your big ego woulda slowed you down enough."

"Can we focus on killing these things please?!" Hugonin pleaded desperately to his left, spear jabbing outwards to drive back Dismas' foe.

The three of them now comprised the only line of defense between the remaining creatures and the remaining teamsters. Alexis' other guard, Crayson, if Dismas remembered the name correctly, had gone down screaming two minutes ago, a monstrosity's claws planted firmly in his chest cavity. Terrible shame, that. Crayson had been one of the few willing to play cards with him.

"What's the matter kid? Scared?" Dismas panted as his hands danced desperately over his pistols, reloading as fast as he could while the others kept the creatures at bay. The spikes of pain that rippled through his chest due to the "Well don't be! Fuckers wanna kill you!" he proclaimed as he finished reloading the first pistol, just in time to send a bawling monster reeling backwards from a shot to the leg. "Get mad about it, not afraid!"

"So inspiring," Grancourt sneered as he booted the stumbling creature into a guttering campfire, where it promptly turned into a blazing torch. "Did you get that one out of some shitty novel you stole? Didn't know you could read."

The remaining creatures, reduced to a mere eight now, shuffled backwards warily as they observed the fate of their comrade. Given the ease with which they took to flame, it was no surprise that the beasts did their best to keep their distance from anyone who utilized fire as a form of defense, especially after a number of teamsters had taken to turning them into living torches. Such an act, however, would garner the immediate attention of all of the fungi men in the area, who would then work to take down the igniter no matter the costs to themselves. Grancourt, with a single action, had caused the entirety of the surviving creatures to focus on them, and them alone.

"Shit," was the only response the bounty hunter could come up with as soon as his brain had processed what his body had just done.

"Shit indeed you idiot," Dismas said in response.

"Oh hells," Hugonin muttered. "Now what do we do?"

The highwayman considered that question for a moment. If Reynauld had been in his place, then the holy man would have no doubt cooked up some heroic-sounding speech on the spot, reminding them all about their duty to protect the frightened civilians behind them. The crusader would then have gone on to mention how the gods would protect them from the evils found in the darkest corners of the world. Dismas however, being Dismas, stuck to one simple phrase that he had found to work in situations similar to this one.

"Fuck 'em up good."

The answering roar and subsequent charge would have left no time for more words anyways.

* * *

Another one of the fiends fell before his holy blade, bringing his count up to nine and leaving only one of the ranged monstrosities left alive. Sensing its predicament, the beast ran as best as its form allowed it to, resulting in a strange mixture of hops and waddling that was all too slow to escape the crusader bearing down upon it.

A downward stab punctured through its pliable not-skin and slammed its way through whatever passed for its internal organs before bursting out of the opposite side with ease. A rapidly-expanding pool of gray ichor puddled beneath it as Reynauld drew out his claymore and let its limp body collapse to the ground in a heap.

The holy warrior fell to his knees next to it the moment it touched the blighted earth. He had caught a full blast of strange vapor that one of the beasts had emitted in self-defense, and now that the adrenaline was wearing off, he could feel every last bit of it working its way through his muscles. By the gods themselves, it felt like he was burning from the inside out.

Slowly he worked his way back onto his feet, aware that though his part out here was finished, there was still a battle to be won. Through gaping holes rent in the wagons, he could see figures fighting and dying, their shadows eerily cast in huge caricatures against the forest by the dying fires. He jogged back towards the fray, the muscle pains leaving him unable to manage a faster pace. He could only hope he arrived fit enough to bring ruination upon his foes.

As he shimmied his way through a gap and into the remains of the circle, he could see that the others were still alive, though only just so. Grancourt was bleeding heavily as he harried a fungi man, attempting to keep the thing away from Dismas, who already had two of the creatures coordinating attacks from both of his sides. The remaining guard was fighting purely defensively, merely trying to stay alive at this point.

Gathering what little energy he had left, he threw himself at Grancourt's foe, cutting it down before it realized that another enemy had joined the fight.

"About damn time you showed up," the bounty hunter panted, blood leaking from the sides of his mouth as he spoke.

"The creatures were more formidable than they initially appeared," Reynauld admitted, though it galled him to do so.

"Whatever, let's just—"

Before Grancourt could finish his sentence however, an earsplitting shriek echoed throughout the clearing, causing everyone not fighting to turn and see a truly disturbing sight.

The remaining guard had had his weapon and shield battered out of his hands, and the shambling beast had proceeded to impale the unfortunate man upon its talons. Rather than outright killing the poor soul however, things began to shift and snap beneath the man's skin, the flesh stretching and deforming horribly as bones reformed themselves in the most painful fashion imaginable to accommodate the new form taking shape before their eyes. An ugly and sickly shade of green blotched outwards from the site of the impalement in the guard's chest, oozing virulently into areas that had been already changed. Even the screams of horror and agony that erupted profusely from the man's mouth were not left untouched, slowly but surely becoming more and more like the groans and whines that had layered the air ever since the creatures had arrived.

"Holy hells…" Grancourt murmured behind him. For once, Reynauld felt no need to chastise the man for his blasphemy. The statement encapsulated perfectly everything he was feeling at the moment.

He lifted the claymore off his back, ignoring his lurching stomach. "Go and aid Dismas," he said, not looking back at the gaping bounty hunter. "I will do what is necessary."

The crusader did not bother waiting for an answer. Such profane desolation inflicted upon a fellow human being could only be answered with one punishment: death.

The foul creature turned and dropped the writhing mass that had once been a person, bellowing in his face as it no doubt prepared to do the same to him. Reynauld refused to give it the chance, cutting into the creature with all of the strength that the righteous fury burning inside of him granted. Within seconds the beast was reduced to twitching pieces scattered about on the ground.

He had no idea how long he stood there, teeth clenched and blunting his fury by turning the already-tiny pieces into even smaller ones before a low moan worked its way into his consciousness. Turning to face the source, he was confronted with the half-transformed guard still lying upon the ground where he had been dropped. A mixture of blood and ichor oozed sluggishly out of a quartet of puncture wounds where he had been impaled, the resulting stream snaking its way through the blackened dirt until it lapped eagerly at his iron greaves, mingling with the blood already present there. Though the man's head had remained mostly intact, an odd lump protruded from his throat, rendering him unable to articulate the sheer amount of pain that he was no doubt suffering. And the eyes…

Reynauld had seen those eyes before a hundred times over. They were the eyes of a man who knew that he was within minutes of joining the gods at their sides, and was afraid. Afraid not for his immortal soul, for he was already long past such a state, but rather afraid for those he would leave behind. For those he felt he had failed.

Such eyes had no place in the boyish figures still present on the man's face.

Reynauld knew what he had to do, yet those eyes seemed to taunt him with every tiny movement he made. They reminded him of his oath, and how he had failed to uphold it once again.

Never again, he had sworn. Yet here he was, again, preparing to grant yet another soul the peace of the gods.

He was faintly aware of Dismas and Grancourt shuffling up behind him, their eyes transfixed by the sight before them. He did his best to ignore them. To ignore the eyes. Gods damn those eyes.

With one smooth motion, he brought his blade flashing downwards. Just before the strike connected, he could see those eyes shift. Shift to acceptance and thankfulness. He hated it when the eyes did that too.

As the head went bouncing away, taking the eyes with it, Dismas summed up what they were all feeling then.

"Fuck this place."


	8. Dark Deeds Past

_Appearing as monsters to their masters or blood to angry hounds,  
Making the heart violently race without ever making a sound.  
You begin to remember the day of the dark deed past  
As Time's fine line is swiftly cast,_

 _Deep into ancient waters from the Pool of memories_  
 _Next to others crowding the depths from vacancies._  
 _Alas! History is found and reeled back to the soul,_  
 _And the grief hits you like rumored killers from the Knoll._

 _Some deal with guilt in silence and cry._  
 _Others get passed with an empty sigh._  
 _Yet few go on and admit (to either friend or preacher)_  
 _Only to discover the good of guilt as life's most haunting teacher._

\- Joshua Thomas

 _Chapter 7: Dark Deeds Past_

He should not be here. The gods only knew just how many vows he was breaking by doing this. There was at least a dozen different things he could be doing right now, all of them urgent. Praying, contacting his brothers and sisters-in-faith to ask for their assistance, proselytizing, _anything_.

Yet for some odd reason he could not bring himself to care. Not now, no matter how much his conscience burned his very soul for his indifference. He needed this more than he was willing to admit, even to himself.

Perhaps he could find some semblance of peace here, unlikely as that was. It was worth the effort, regardless.

So here he sat, inside a rundown and decrepit excuse of a tavern, ignoring the stench of unwashed humanity and the insults thrown about freely between inebriated patrons. The wooden mug filled to the brim with spirits sat placidly on the wooden bar in front of him, calmly tempting him to explore its murky depths. Reynauld, clad in humble wool spun clothing whilst his battered suit of armor underwent repairs, stared back at it, silently losing to the goblet of devils in the unrelenting battle of wills, the mighty fortifications erected by his inner spirit crumbling brick by brick in the face of its merciless onslaught.

On the stool next to him, Dismas shifted, scratching at the bandage that stretched across his upper torso while taking care not to accidently spill his drink in the process. The movement reminded him of his own injuries, which painfully flared up in response. They had only been released from the less-than-tender cares of Vesli only a day ago, their wounds having proven to have been not as deep as they had first appeared. The gods be praised for small mercies. However, while his body was already healing from his previous encounter with the evils of the forest, his mind and soul still lingered on the battle and its aftermath in every second of spare time that he had.

Spare time was something he had found himself having far too much of recently. According to Lord Alexis, there would even more of it in the foreseeable future while he reorganized affairs of the expedition to better face the challenges that had been presented during their expedition. Far too much more of it, in his opinion.

The eyes stared accusingly at him every time he closed his. Not just the eyes of Hugonin, whose name he only learned after he had killed him, which had been another failure on his part, but the eyes of every single person he had ever been forced to grant mercy to. The eyes of every one he had failed. His brothers and sisters-in-faith, the innocents he had sworn to defend, men and women just like Hugonin. He had failed them all.

"You know," Dismas began after a long pull from his drink, "most people tend to drown their sorrows with that stuff, not glare them into submission."

Reynauld nearly jumped from his seat, so swiftly and unexpectedly was he pulled from his musings. "There is such a thing as inner reflection, though I do not expect you to be familiar with such a term," he snapped, shifting on his seat in an attempt to mask his discomfort. Why did the atmosphere of this den of iniquity seem so oppressive all of a sudden? "Such affairs are best done before imbibing copious amounts of intoxicants."

"On the contrary, stone-dead drunk is the best time for thinkin'. Lemme guess," Dismas said before upending the remaining contents of his cup down his throat, "Hugonin again?"

He stopped mid-movement, before craning his neck to fire a glare at the rogue who was nonchalantly waving the tavernkeep over for another ale. The look, however, was seemingly lost somewhere in the smoky air that permeated the common room and failed to phase its target at all. The tavernkeep, however, was suitably impressed, and nearly ended up spilling Dismas' drink as he brought the rogue's mug back over with shaking hands after replenishing it.

He had forgotten how damn perceptive the other man could be at times. A hundred curses upon him for bringing this up. It was the last conversation he wanted to have with anyone, never mind _him_.

"I'll take that as a yes then," Dismas said simply as he eyed his reaction before bringing his newly-filled mug up to lips crisscrossed with scars. "Don't know why you're still mopin' over him, won't do you no good. Especially after you spent the entire trip back doin' that, along with the entire time Vesli had us strapped down while she stuck us with all them big needles. Fuckin' sadist, that woman."

Faces flashed across his vision, images dredged up from the past. A tapestry of all the times he had failed. Shaking his head in a vain attempt to rid himself of their haunting, he stated, "I am not moping." The words sounded weak and distant even to his ears.

Dismas snorted as he sat his mug back down on the battered and warped wooden plank that made up the bar. "You've been wanderin' around in a daze ever since you killed him, and you sit there and tell me you ain't mopin'? I'm not _that_ stupid."

Reynauld snarled in response before scooping his cup up and draining it in one long pull. Slamming it back down onto the counter to the disapproving glare of the tavernkeep, who paled and turned away when he briefly shifted his own glare over to the man before turning it back to Dismas. "I am _not_ 'moping,'" he strenuously denied.

The other man held up his hands in a gesture of mock surrender. "Fine, though if you ain't mopin', what are you doin' then? Because in all the time we've been stuck out in this shithole, I've yet to see you drink once." Gesturing towards Reynauld's now-empty mug, he added, "But here you are, doing exactly that."

After Reynauld failed to answer him, instead opting to continue his glare, the rogue pressed onwards. "Look," he started, "he's dead. Nothin' any of us could have done."

When there was still no change in Reynauld's unresponsiveness, Dismas faltered. It was obvious that the scoundrel had never had to do this before. He watched as the other man turned back towards his half-finished drink, his mind a whirlwind of clashing thoughts and emotions. Eventually bullheaded stubbornness won out, putting down the other sentiments with ruthless efficiency. "There was plenty we could have done, _should_ have done, yet still he died a death most terrible. A death that I _should_ have been able to prevent, _could_ have been unable to prevent, yet was unable to do so!"

"And how would you have gone about that? Explain that to me."

"I ran off in the middle of the battle, and my absence forced the three of you to fight against unfavorable odds. Unfavorable odds that resulted in his fate. Thus, it is my fault that he died."

Dismas merely shook his head in response. "'s a load of bullshit an' you know it. You didn't run, and besides, the fuck were you gonna do? Let those things keep hitting us? We'd all be dead if you had, and you know it."

"There is always a different solution," Reynauld hissed back. "A different solution that does not result in _people dying!_ " By now their heated argument had drawn the attention of the entire tavern, and people were either backing away slowly or reaching for weapons. Some, no doubt, were doing both. Neither man paid them any mind.

"Like what?!" Dismas said, exasperation written all over his face. "Fuckin' face it, we were screwed from the start. You wanna blame someone? Blame that prick who sent us out without botherin' to find out what was the gods damned problem in the first fuckin' place!"

When no answer was forthcoming, the highwayman snorted in disgust. "Gettin' yourself all worked up over nothin'. Fuckin' hells, get a damn grip man.

"I would not expect one such as you to understand," Reynauld responded icily.

"The _fuck_ do you mean by _that_?"

"Your type is all the same. To expect you to understand the weight of failure is an exercise doomed to failure, given how all that you seem to exist for is coin, with not a single care about the lives of your fellow men."

"Well fuck you too then," Dismas snarled, patience clearly gone. "You so determined to throw yourself a pity party? Then go cry elsewhere. I got drinkin' to do, and I don't need you ruinin' it for me with your fuckin' excuses an' cryin' an' insults." Slamming his mug down in emphasis, he jerked his thumb towards the battered door. "Go on, get the fuck outta here already."

With one final snarl, Reynauld hurled himself off of the bar stool and towards the door, an errant elbow sending his empty mug flying as he did. Silently he berated himself as he made his way towards the exit, part of him angry for yielding to the base criminal, another part furious at himself for listening to the man's argument, no matter how unwillingly. The lives of men were not something to be used before being tossed aside like so much useless trash. Why had he listened to the unwise counsel of men rather than the infallible wisdom of the benevolent divines? Did he feel that these people, these _wretches_ , were somehow _wiser_ than the gods now?

Bile bubbled up from his stomach and into his throat at the thought, mixing disgustedly with the aftertaste of alcohol in his mouth. Whatever solace he had foolishly thought he could find in here was nowhere to be found, as was to be expected. He pushed his way past an incoming crowd, out into the world, whereupon he immediately began to make his way towards the abbey. Prayer. He needed to commune with the gods. As he should have been doing in the first place.

The impact of every footfall shook loose another pair of eyes from his memory. They glared at him the entire way back to his blessed shelter.

He would die before he failed again.

Faint laughter drifted across the still night air, ceaseless in its mocking tone.

The eyes did not relent until he finally closed his eyes for sleep hours later.

* * *

Fucking hells but some people were determined to make themselves suffer for no reason.

Dismas brought his empty cup down once more and waved for another refill, studiously ignoring the still-swinging door that Reynauld had just gone charging out of. He was, in truth, glad that the crusader had chosen to storm out rather than continue their argument. The words he had spoken were logical. Logical and foolish. What use did logic have in the minds of those so determined to blame themselves for situations beyond their bounds of their control? He was no mind reader, someone who trained in the art of mental manipulation for years to treat crazies. And considering that the holy warrior was most likely the craziest of the lot…

He had no idea why he had even tried in the first place. Such problems were things one had to come to terms with on their own. What were words and logic good for in such a situation as the one Reynauld found himself in the midst of now? Indeed, he doubted that the warrior could solve any problem that could not be fixed through prayer or by the swipe of an oversized sword. The man's worldview did not permit such happenings, if Dismas' impressions were correct.

The rogue finished his most recent drink before stumbling off of his stool and onto his feet, throwing a few coins onto the bar absentmindedly to pay for his drinks, praying no mind to their clattering as some overshot and proceeded to dance across the floor, disappearing into the darkened corners of the tavern. He brushed off the faint, angered sputters that erupted from the tavernkeep as a result, focusing on all of willpower so as to not trip and fall back down the imposing staircase that was currently presenting him with such a challenge. Before his addled brain could process his triumph over the climb, he was safely back upstairs and within the welcoming confines of his room. Without further ado, he collapsed on the grungy and lumpy bed, not even bothering to undress, instead simply wishing that for once his sleep would come to him without any of the constant nightmares, if only for just one night.

Dismas snorted into the dirty and stained pillow, the yellowed cloth shifting beneath him as he did. He could not remember the last time he had had a full night's sleep since the first underground excursion. Every time he closed his eyes the nightmarish figures that infested these lands unfailingly came to visit him, their grotesque limbs reaching out for him, beckoning for him to join them in their damnation. The alcohol helped somewhat, but there would most likely never be enough of the stuff to truly free him from the visions. He was doomed to waking up in the dead of the night every night muffling the screams of terror that seemed to echo endlessly within his head, most likely for the rest of his life given his luck.

A low, bitter chuckle escaped his mouth, carried on the air by the wafting stench of alcohol-laden breath, muffled by the fabric that engulfed his head. He ignored just how undignified he would appear to anyone who came to investigate the sound, instead choosing to think about how ironic it was that he of all people that had attempted to give Reynauld advice on dealing with his problems. Perhaps he could understand what the crusader was going through after all. Everyone had their demons. He was just more up front about it with himself, unlike Reynauld, who seemed to be in complete denial.

Yet here he was, honest and haunted. A fat lot of good the truth seemed to be doing him right about now.

It figured, really. After all, he had always been better with lies.

Perhaps that was why he had tried to help Reynauld, he mused. A desperate, unspoken hope that perhaps his words of comfort could be applied to him as well. After all, if he had managed to somehow fix the other man's problems, no matter how temporarily, then it stood to reason that he could potentially help himself. Yet nothing had presented itself as a magical cure to all of his issues, leaving him still stuck in an ever-looping cycle of alcohol and nightmares. Maybe he was broken for good this time.

He groaned, flopping over onto his back, resigned to a bout of introspection before a night of terrors. The death of Hugonin had been shocking, yes, but at the end of the day it had been nothing new to him. How many times had he watched his fellows die painful deaths, bleeding out from an arrow sticking out of their guts, or brutally cut down by a city guardsman, all because their luck had run out that day? Far too many times. More times than he could count, really. Not that he could count that high to begin with.

People were going to die out here. He had already seen that. He would undoubtedly continue to see that. Those was the cold hard facts of the situation. He had no delusions whatsoever in regards to that.

Death and he had an imitable, working relationship, a relationship that would undoubtedly become even closer during his time here in this festering hellhole. It was something he had long since accepted as fact. Hells, considering how he himself had almost died countless dozens of time over the course of his less-than-reputable career, and what with him sending so many men and women to the afterlife, he was sure death had a very special place reserved just for him for when he finally did kick it. A place where he would pay dearly for every time he had given death the finger before going on his way again.

He had lost too many friends and comrades over the years to let another one bother his conscience all that much. Surely Reynauld had experienced the same, what with him being a seasoned warrior and all. Such losses were to be expected with his martial profession. So why all the self-blame on the other man's part? Surely he was used to it by this point?

He blinked, brushing off the mental queries and musings. He had his own problems to deal with. Let that self-righteous prick deal with his. It would serve him right after all. He still had not forgotten what had happened between the two of them on that first excursion, let alone forgiven.

His eyes strained to focus on the ceiling above him as sleep finally came to claim its due, no matter how much he struggled to avoid it. As darkness descended upon his consciousness, they were there, waiting for him expectantly like old friends.

* * *

Within the shadows of his office, Alexis was ruminating as he blankly overlooked what passed for nightlife in the Hamlet. Here and there individuals or small groups made their way to the tavern or one of the few remaining intact buildings that still attempted to draw the attention of the residual populace of the settlement away from their slow, yet gradual, slide towards annihilation.

Sometimes, within the furthest recesses of his mind, he wondered if this entire endeavor was worth it at the end of the day. People were dying daily, the causes ranging from simple accidents to attacks by the malicious creatures that had claimed this land as their own. It weighed heavily upon him to know that it was his fault that they died. Every report that crossed his desk detailing the fate of another worker or another guard, every letter that he wrote back to awaiting families expressing his condolences about the fates of their sons, fathers, brothers, and husbands, every name that he forced himself to commit to memory was like a lance tip to his heart and soul.

As much as he wished he could deny it, as much as he _did_ deny it, he was the one who had lured these people out here with promises and speeches of triumph and wealth. He was the reason why they had died, and he was the reason why more would inevitably continue to do so.

Perhaps he should cut his losses and return to the civilized lands, before more died because of his pride. Because of his folly. He could send word to the leaders of the One Faith. They would be much more suited to this task than he was.

But then, a voice echoing deep within him reminded him, he was doing what was right, here and now. What had to be done. What was _necessary._ Who was he to turn tail and run now, simply because of a few setbacks? Who was he that he should let others blame him for making the decisions that no one else could bring themselves to make? If he left, who would restore this land and destroy the creatures of evil, if not himself? Not those senile old men that lounged about in their gilded palaces within the Holy City, issuing decrees that increased their powers at the expense of the rightfully appointed rulers of the lands, that much was certain.

He, the ruler of these lands by blood, Lord Alexis Banecroft, was the only one strong enough to see this task through to the end, his inner spirit whispered to him. Everyone else was either too weak or too indifferent to do the things he had done already, and the things he would have to do in the future.

Leaders had to make difficult decisions to obtain victory, he reminded himself. How could he have forgotten that simple fact? This what he had been born to do, his destiny. No matter the cost, he would grasp his victory with both hands. He could ill afford to do anything else.

Then, when he inevitably succeeded and all saw this land, this _birthright_ of his, and the splendor that it had been restored to by _his_ efforts alone, none would _dare_ raise a voice against him. He would be its undisputed ruler for as long as he lived. All he had to do was what needed to be done.

Silently, he arose from the shadows in which his chair resided and paced over to the reports that lay silently neglected upon his desk. The last expedition had been a success in name only. Most of the teamsters and supplies had been lost to those creatures. In addition, Dismas, Reynauld, and Grancourt had suffered several wounds, injured to such a degree that he had been forced to acquiesce to Vesli's demand to disallow the three of them from exerting themselves in anything more straining than walking for at least six days. The two guards he had dispatched with the caravan were dead; combined with rising losses suffered from the other guards stationed at varying points underground casualties were rapidly becoming unsustainable. Were defeat not such an impalpable word to him, he would have despaired at the situation in which he currently found himself in.

The cold and unyielding fact of the matter was that he simply did not have enough soldiers to do everything he wished to do. It rankled him to even consider that he might have made a mistake, yet the reality of the rapidly sinking state of his expedition stared unblinkingly back at him. This required rectifying, before the state of affairs became any worse.

These next few days would prove critical, the faint voice urged him. He was hardly inclined to argue with it.

He growled lightly in frustration before reaching for his quill and inkwell. He needed to expend a number of favors if he were to salvage any of this, favors that he had been hoping to save for more dire emergencies than this one. Unfortunately for him however, reality rarely bent to his will as often as he wished it did.

Someday that would change. Someday he would be the one dictating rather than pleading. Someday they would all regret forcing him to beg. He would see to it gleefully when that day came.

He had work to do. They all did. Sitting around and pondering would not do him any good. It was time to act.

As his quill furiously scribbled across rough parchment, the grim look entrenched upon his face illuminated by a flickering oil lamp, one thought ran through his mind, efficiently quelling any remaining doubts.

None would stand in the way of his reclamation. No matter who they were.

* * *

Satisfaction.

Satisfaction was a rare emotion for It to feel. Its plans were long and twisting, devious in the extreme. They often took centuries to come to fruition, and even then were often mere stepping stones towards the next intricate plan. Rarely did It take the time to appreciate just how _simple_ these creatures could be to manipulate. All it took was the simplest of suggestions, and then all It had to do was stand back and let them do the rest of Its work for It.

Desperation, despair, and determination were such powerful emotions, easy to subtly tweak in agreeable directions within the unwary and unenlightened. A setback here, a glimmer of hope there, and even the most powerful and assertive of mortals found themselves reduced to little more than mere paupers begging after their next meal. It was pathetic at times, really.

The mortals of flesh and blood that scurried about on the surface and in the doorways of its domain were demonstrating themselves to be especially prone to such manipulations. While they were proving to be somewhat more resilient than their ancestors had been all those centuries ago, they still posed no challenge to one such as It. Why had It been so worried? Just as before, there were no questions asked, no actions taken. Instead, worrying developments were dismissed lightly, while trifling matters were inflated to levels far beyond what reality would usually dictate as appropriate.

It scoffed, sending rumbles throughout the earth. Truly, these creatures possessed no mental fortitude, no strength of will. When the time was right, they would all fall like wheat before the scythe, dust before the wind. Those that refused to kneel would find their bodies forcing others to kneel. That time, It ruminated, was rapidly drawing nearer.

Far beneath the earth its armies grew in number and power daily. Creatures of flesh, aberrations of bones, grotesque parodies of life itself. Soon would come the day of their unleashing. The day of Its unveiling to the weaklings of this world. When all was finished and in thrall to Its dark majesty, the cravens that inhabited this world would fulfill their lone purpose in life: eons of servitude in Its name.

Then, when their souls were devoured and Its power elevated to unfathomable levels, to the point that reality would once more become Its plaything, It would need to find new sources of food. Stretching coils of Its vast consciousness outwards, It could feel the presence of other beings even more primitive than the ones that currently thought themselves the masters of this world residing in the great dark void beyond the sky. Unsuspecting, helpless primitives that had not even a concept for a being such as It. Creatures that would fall on their knees in supplication before It while It feasted upon their soul essences.

They would do quite nicely after these ones were expended. Tendrils of twisted and corrupted flesh flicked in anticipation. Quite nicely indeed.

All It had to do was take care of these nuisances first. A trifling task if there ever was one.

The end of days was soon. Soon It would be free once more.

Eager anticipation washed through It, Its body twisting and twitching in barely suppressed excitement.

Soon.


	9. Mere Chance

_WEEP, maiden, weep here o'er the tomb of Love;_

 _He died of nothing – by mere chance was slain._

 _But is he really dead? – oh, that I cannot prove:_

 _A nothing, a mere chance, oft gives him life again._

\- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 _Chapter 8: Mere Chance_

Dismas let out a piteous groan, sinking further beneath a ratty, moth-eaten blanket as he attempted to stave off the efforts of a few rogue beams of sunlight that filtered in through the grimy, cracked, and drafty pane of glass that tried to unsuccessfully pass itself off as his room's window. The pounding in his head and the screaming of his bladder, however, warned him that not only would he be unable to return to the blessed land of sleep that he had been forcibly dragged from, but also that he would regret any attempt to return there.

Heaving a sigh, he unceremoniously flopped his way out of his bed, feet questing around for his boots while his eyes squinted towards the bright light intruding inwards, trying to judge the time of day. At least midday, if his internal clock was not lying to him through its teeth, which was hardly surprising considering how late he had been drinking last night.

"Worth it," he groaned lightly, before spitting a wad of foul tasting saliva onto the floor.

Last night had been one of the first nights in far too long that he had managed to enjoy an actual night's worth of sleep, even if he had practically ended up drinking everything that the bartender had still stocked. Poor sod, he mused wryly as he jammed one foot into a boot before tearing it off in irritation when he realized that it was the wrong boot. Supplies were still low even after their expedition the previous week, and here he was ravenously tearing through the man's store in a vain attempt to self-medicate. Dismas could not imagine what Alexis had the man owing in order to keep the booze flowing, but then, he did not particularly care either.

With the monumental task of ensuring that his boots were on the correct feet finally completed, he pushed himself upright. Fighting past a wave of lightheadedness as he did, he pushed the thin plank of wood disguised as his door open, not caring in the slightest when he felt the wood collide with something or someone, and ignored the resulting muffled sound of protest as he made his way downstairs and outside.

The resulting sight of a battered and rundown outhouse with no long line of dirty people waiting outside in the muck to use it was undoubtedly one of the most beautiful sights he had ever seen in his lifetime.

Several minutes later, he stumbled out of the shack, lazily hauling his pants skywards and groaning in relief when he came face to face with a man dressed rather haphazardly in a collection of shabby, dull gray rags, although face to mask would be the more correct word choice in this situation. A rough mask of tarnished bronze, fashioned into the shape of a perpetually dour man and stained and worn down by the passage of years glared back at him with unblinking eyes. Through slits carved in the metal, he could see a pair of startlingly blue irises staring back at him, and the mask terminated just below the nose exposing a hairless chin and a pair of cracked lips to the world, but beyond that he could perceive no more exposed flesh anywhere on this stranger.

Their respective gazes met in what most certainly had to be the most awkward stare of Dismas' life. "The pisser's free if'n you're needing it," he said, uncertain as to what exactly he should be saying to the person who had undoubtedly followed him and then waited for him to do his business. He was fairly certain he had not seen this person around the hamlet before, so why a stranger felt compelled to trail him was beyond his comprehension.

"Actually, my business is with you, if you do not mind," answered the man with a baritone voice, looking for all the world as if this entire situation was nothing new to him.

Dismas blinked confusedly at the man before glancing downwards at his still-unbuttoned trousers and then back at the now-empty outhouse before blanching slightly in realization. Gods, he was one of _those_ people, wasn't he?

"Look, I don't know what exactly you've been hearin' around here, but I can tell you right now: it ain't true," he rushed out heatedly, hands fiddling desperately to fix his pants as he did.

"What?" the other man asked, taken aback.

"Ever since I beat that one cheatin' fucker at his own game in cards, he's been spreadin' nothin' but shit about me. I dunno what you've been hearin', but it's a load of shit. Hate to break it to you."

Dismas could see the man blink confusedly behind his mask at that, which resulted in him doing the same. Perhaps he had gravely misjudged this situation.

"I was hoping to speak to you, though not about whatever it is you seem to be implying," the other man said, pushing on past the awkwardness that now hung heavily in the air around them. "Word around this hamlet says that you are personally acquainted with and work for the nobleman who recently arrived here."

"Your point?" he asked impatiently, trying to push past the embarrassment of being so grievously wrong in the hopes of getting to the point.

"I was hoping that you could introduce me to him."

Dismas blinked. Once, twice. "Oh," he said. "You sure you want me to be one to do that? Might make a better impression if you go dig Reynauld out of his little prayer session in the church."

"Perhaps," the other man conceded, before shaking his head. "They tell quite the stories about your antics here in town. Especially given how short an amount of time I've been here. Did you really get into a fist fight with one of the guards while drinking in a ruined house in the outskirts of the hamlet?"

"You left out the best part."

"So it is true," the other man said, not looking particularly surprised. "And that is?"

"He knocked over the lantern that I took out there. The house caught fire as a result, so we had ourselves one hell of a fight in the middle of an inferno."

"Now you are simply exaggerating."

"Swear on my mum's fuckin' worm-ridden corpse. I even won too, pissed Alexis off to no end," Dismas chuckled, before gesturing for the other man to follow him. "Well you haven't started berating me yet, that's a good enough reason for me. I'll show you to that bastard noble's place."

"My thanks."

"Don't thank me yet, you still have to deal with him after all," he simply grunted in response before trudging off towards the center of town, the other man at his side.

The two of them marched onwards in silence, gray clouds reasserting their dominance far overhead, quietly strangling the piteous amounts of sunlight that had dared to show its face earlier as they did. They continued like this for a few minutes before Dismas turned his head to look at the other man, questions gnawing away at him.

"The hell are you even all the way out here for anyways? In fact, how the fuckin' hell did you manage to make it all the way out here? Damned bastards out in the forests nearly murdered us all the last time we were out there, and we sure as fuck weren't alone. And now you show up all on your lonesome?" Dismas' voice took on an ever-increasing suspicious edge as he questioned the other man.

"I am here looking for something that my life desperately needs nowadays: purpose," the man said simply, before his mouth set itself into a thin line. "And as for how I made it here, I would rather not say."

Dismas inched one of his hands closer towards the butt of his pistol. "Yeah, no, that answer ain't gonna do it for me. See, the shit I've seen out here? Terrible stuff, one and all. And I ain't taking any chance you're with any of 'em. Now, you can either give me a proper answer, or I'll blow your fuckin' head off and be on my merry way."

"That will not be necessary," the man replied quickly, a strained smile taking up residence on his face. "I simply meant that such a tale would be less than pleasant, as you no doubt understand if you have truly been out there yourself."

Dismas stopped and considered that, mulling it over for a long moment before responding. "Fair enough, I suppose," he grunted, hand moving away from the pistol. "So, what do you want here in our fair little shithole?" he queried, redirecting the hand instead to the inside of his jacket as he searched for the one thing in the world that would bring him some semblance of happiness in the lack of any nearby alcohol.

"I had heard that your liege was looking for individuals capable of handling themselves admirably in the face of great peril, and journeyed here to meet him," came the explanation as the two of them ambled their way towards the center of town.

"Sounds like you just quoted a help wanted poster to me," quipped Dismas as his hand finally located and closed around his pipe.

A small smile graced what little skin remained exposed to the elements. "Perhaps I did. Will you hold it against me?"

Dismas held up one finger, indicating for a moment, before lighting his pipe and taking a deep, satisfying drag of the rough tobacco stored within. "Ah," he groaned in contentment as the familiar burn of smoke filling his lungs spread throughout his body. "I'll try not to, just don't do it again, yeah?"

"Of course."

Another puff of smoke. "So, you really want to go through with this then?" he asked as he led the way towards that prissy noble's home, boots squelching faintly in the remaining mud as he did. "I'll tell you now, it's a regular ol' fashioned nonstop festival of horror and regrets."

"After what I saw in the forest, I feel that I can hardly do otherwise."

"Oh there's plenty you can do besides this," sneered Dismas in response. "You could just turn around and leave, rather than tryin' to play the damn hero. That's the smart thing to do, count on it."

"If it is so smart, then why are you still here?" came the mild, expected, retort. "Why not do the 'smart thing,' as you put it?"

"Because I ain't stupid, that's why," he said through a mouthful of smoke. "Look, I don't know what you went through, and I won't ask. I don't rightly care. But the shit I went through the other week?" He stuck the pipe back into his mouth and took another drag before continuing. "I ain't goin' through it again. Not if I don't have to."

"But would not leaving, as disagreeable as it may be, be better than remaining here and continuing to face whatever it is that ails this land?"

"Ah, but there's a simple answer to that question, I'll have you know," Dismas said before nodding towards the man sagely, stretching out his hands as if about to impart one of the great truths of the universe upon him. "I'm a coward, see? That ought to answer your question, I reckon."

"Perhaps it does," the other man rumbled, before silence fell over them once more.

"You know," he said casually as they neared the residence that Alexis had claimed for his own, "I don't recall you saying your name."

"Have I not?" the other man asked, making a thoughtful noise as he pondered the course of their conversation. "I guess not, strange."

There was a long moment of silence before Dismas eyed him strangely. "You gonna tell me then?"

The other man simply replied with an apologetic grin. "At this point, it would most likely be simpler to just introduce myself to both Lord Banecroft and you at the same time."

Dismas, for his part, merely shrugged in response. "If that's what works for you."

The pair weaved their way past a small group of individuals that made no attempt to move out of the way, let alone acknowledge the existence of the other two men. The masked man glanced backwards after they passed, eyes narrowing slightly behind the mask's eye slits.

"Are they always like this?" the other man asked, voice betraying his faint bafflement at the unusual behavior of the hamlet's inhabitants.

"You get used to it," Dismas said dismissively.

They said no more as they neared the two story house that Alexis had claimed as his own, until they had passed the disgruntled guards who made clear their dislike for Dismas' presence and stood in the doorframe.

"So, one last question before we enter," Dismas said, hand resting upon the tarnished metal door knob as he turned to face the other man.

"And that might be?"

"You here to kill Alexis?"

There was a brief pause in which total silence found itself as king of the world for a few eternities, as if everyone and everything within earshot had suddenly held their breath at the audacious question. "You are a strange man, are you not?" the other man asked incredulously a moment later, hooded and masked head shaking ponderously.

"I'll take that as a no then. Shame, really," Dismas said as he opened the battered wooden door and revealed the interior of the house to the dreary outside world. "Still, should you ever change your mind, just ask. I'll help," he said, sticking out his hand towards his companion.

The man glanced downwards minutely before shaking his head once more. "You would not want to do that," said the other man casually, making no move to reciprocate the gesture.

Dismas, for his part, could only stare back confusedly, hand still outstretched.

"Trust me," the other man insisted gently, a wry, ironic smile taking root on his face.

Dismas grunted as he withdrew his hand awkwardly. "And you say I'm the strange one."

"One man's oddity does not change another man's."

"Yeah, whatever," Dismas said before flicking ashes from his pipe onto the floor. "C'mon, I wanna see Alexis' face when we walk in. We don't exactly get new people around here often, or at all really. Should be interesting."

Dismas led the way upstairs to Alexis' study, with the masked man close behind. Upon reaching the door that led to it, he pushed it open, a cloud of smoke billowing out of his mouth as he did.

"Gods damn you rogue," Alexis swore, coughing as he waved away the smoke that had blown towards him. "I told you to refrain from indulging in your vices in here! And what in the four layers of hell could you possibly want now?"

Dismas took a good long drag from his pipe before deigning to answer. "Got someone here who, for reasons beyond me, wants to see you," he drawled, before moving out of the doorframe.

"You have certainly been going places in the years since we last met," the other man said as he entered into the room. "Though I believe that phrase implies moving on to better things, rather than a mud-ridden village in the middle of nowhere."

"Lord Cardon?" Alexis choked out, disbelief taking control of his tongue. To the side, Dismas narrowed his eyes as he glanced towards this Cardon fellow. Great, now there were two of them.

"It's been some time, has it not Alexis?" Cardon asked dryly.


End file.
